Page 17 of Pucking One Night Stand

Two minutes. One more push.

Thumper wins the face-off clean. Flicks it back to Peters, who doesn’t waste time. He moves it up the ice like a damn Chess master.

I shift, my eyes on the lanes. Brody picks it up on the wing and sends a touch-pass to Bishy on the other side, smooth, tight.

Bishy sees the lane open, rockets up the ice, and lets it rip.

Ding.

Post. Damn well kissed the bar.

“That’s better, boys! Much better!” McCullum claps once, hard.

Thirty seconds.

They’re pressing now. Desperate. Bodies crashing. Sticks whacking. Puck hopping.

Vasko’s back. Always him.

He tries to pivot to change the angle. I don’t let him and knock his balance just enough that he flubs the play.

Monty dives, trying to get a stick on it, but it’s over.

Final whistle.

McAvoy flings the puck away like it insulted his family. Peters taps the end of his stick against mine, a silent ‘good job.’

McCullum actually smiles. First time all session. “That’s the intensity I want to see.”

Danny’s already halfway back to the tunnel. “Still work to do.”

Always.

I skate off with Brody, who’s still chewing on his damn mouth guard like it’s beef jerky. He slaps the side of my helmet. “Shit as always.”

“Speak for yourself.” My lungs are practically screaming as I remove my helmet.

Bishy and Thumper catch up, with Bishy laughing as usual.

“You were both shit, girls!” Thumper’s voice bounces down the tunnel like he’s announcing a title fight.

We head down the tunnel, still dripping, still buzzing. No fans. No lights. Just the team, and a scrimmage that might as well have been war.

The locker room door swings open and the smell hits like a goddamn freight train— sweat, gear, damp tape, and whatever Thumper’s feet have been marinating in.

Thumper’s the first to start peeling gear off as he yanks his jersey over his head and tosses it into his stall. “Anyone else smell that? Smells like Vasko’s ego just died in here.”

Brody slams onto the bench, pulls off his elbow pads, and lets them thud to the floor. “It’s you, man. Your gear smells like fermented ball sack.”

“Means it’s game-ready.” Thumper fires back with a big grin.

I start unlacing my skates, steam still rising off my shirt. Every guy’s doing the same— dropping pads, ripping tape off sticks. Some are shirtless, some are already in towels, all of them are loud as hell.

“Shut up,” I lunge at him as he pretends to block a punch with a shin pad. We’re half-wrestling when the door opens.

“Enough!” It’s McCullum with Danny right behind him, his arms full of clipboards and nervous energy.

Before either of them can say anything else, Thumper yells over the noise, “Yo! Vasko!”