Page 41 of Pucking Strong (Jacksonville Rays #4)

T he puck drops for the third time in the first period, and Lindberg claims it, passing it across to Langley. I try to get myself in position, but there’s a lot of traffic as we move down the ice. The Islanders are fresh off their summer too, and just as hungry for their first win of the season.

Each time I get the puck, I send it back to Jake or Novy. I just can’t catch my breath with the way these guys keep swarming me, and I can’t seem to move the puck forward.

Coach calls for a line change, and I race to the bench, hopping the side as Westie takes my place out on the line.

As soon as I drop down to the bench, Assistant Coach Denison steps in behind me.

He places a hand on mine and Lindberg’s shoulder pads.

“We gotta be moving the puck faster out there, boys. Read each play and find those openings. Karlsson, you’re playing it too safe.

That new guy Ramsay is all over you. But he’s a lightweight, first year in the League.

Probably still thinks Santa brings him his hockey sticks for Christmas. ”

Around me, the other guys laugh.

Denison slaps my shoulder pad. “Let’s rush these forward lines and get some real two-on-one action going, eh? Let’s make some real plays out there! Come on, let’s go!”

We all grunt our assent as our brief, fifty-second respite ends.

The line changes, and Langley, Lindberg, and I take to the ice again.

I shoot across the rink, instantly picking up my new shadow.

Coach is right—my usual gameplay isn’t working with this guy.

He’s all over me, reading me like a book.

Time to get creative. Rather than stay in my lane and wait for Lindberg or Langley to get a clean shot to pass, I rush the goal, cutting in towards the center line.

Both Islander defensemen scramble, bracing for Lindberg to pass the puck to me.

But Lindberg uses my sudden surge to slip the puck behind Ramsay and out of the middle.

Langley just barely snags the puck with the tip of his blade.

In one stride, he’s recovered it. In two, he takes his first shot on goal.

It shoots like a bullet across the ice, cutting right past the goalie’s toe and into the back of the net.

The siren lights up, the horn blasts, and the arena erupts with cheers.

A textbook line rush. I didn’t get the goal.

I didn’t even get the assist. But the play would have been impossible without me.

And now the score is 1-0. Lindberg and I skate in to Langley, congratulating him for getting the first goal of the season.

“Well done,” I tell him, slapping his back and tapping our helmets together.

Jake skates in behind me, wrapping an arm around Langley. “Seriously, Langers? The Baha Men?”

I glance around, only just noticing the commotion. Half the fans are barking like dogs and dancing to the song “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

Langley groans. “Oh, fuck me. The WAGs picked our goal music for tonight, remember?”

I glance between them. “What do you mean?”

Jake laughs, patting me on the back. “Score a goal, and you’ll find out.”

From my spot on the ice, I can see Teddy standing right on the plexiglass, surrounded by his family.

They’re all laughing and smiling, leaning in to touch him, saying things in his ear that make him laugh.

And they’re all wearing my jersey, even the littlest children.

By showing up and supporting me, I know they’re actually supporting him.

Good. He deserves good people in his corner, ready to fight for him and give him everything he wants. Is this what he wants from me? He wants me to score a goal so he can embarrass me with whatever song he picked?

Done.

Lord knows he’s done enough for me already. Whatever my husband wants, he gets.

The ref holds up the puck, and we all get into position. Just before he drops it down, Ramsay gives me a nudge. “Say, you must be nearing retirement age there. Eh, bud?”

With a growl, I check him with my hip and race off after the action. Lindberg didn’t claim possession, and the Islanders sink the puck deep into their zone. A defenseman glides around the back of the net with the puck, waiting for his front line to try a play.

When you’ve played hockey as long as I have, there are moments of clarity on the ice when you just know what’s going to happen next. I feel the moment the energy shifts in Ramsay. He’s going to break away from me and shoot down the ice, looking for a deep pass.

I give him the half second he needs to think he’s breaking away before I follow.

He’s fast, but I’m faster, with a longer wingspan.

The Islander defenseman sees the breakaway and makes the pass.

The puck zips down the ice towards us. I extend out my stick and hook the puck away from Ramsay.

I hardly register the hum of the crowd as I slide to a stop, spraying ice, and change directions.

The other Islander forwards were ready to follow Ramsay.

They scramble, chasing after me, but I have the two-second lead I need.

Their left-side defender is a giant of a man. I’ve played against him plenty of times before. His hits rattle my damn bones. But he’s slow. I dart his way. His partner falls back to guard the net. This is a three-on-one between the Islander defensive line and me. I have no chance.

Time to dangle.

It all happens in seconds. I weave and dart, making quick movements with my stick and quicker work of my feet.

I slip the puck right between the giant’s legs, recovering it on the other side.

I cross the slot, luring the other defenseman to follow.

He charges at me, ready to block. With him between me and the goalie, I have no choice but to extend the puck out with my stick, trying to clear him for the shot.

At the last moment, I tuck in tight, lift the puck, and flip it right into the corner of the net.

As the siren blasts and the cherry lights up, I let the defenseman’s momentum take us both into the boards.

He crushes me to the plexiglass and we both grunt.

With a muttered curse, he skates off, just as Lindberg and Langley skate in.

“Dude, that was fucking awesome!” Langley slaps my back.

“Very impressive,” Lindberg says in Swedish.

They both skate with me towards the bench.

The music is blasting as the stadium keeps cheering.

I’ve been in enough clubs in my career to know the song Teddy picked for me.

It’s “Money Maker” by Ludacris. I can’t help but smile.

A song about paying women to shake their butts for money? It’s utterly ridiculous.

But I must admit, the crowd seems to enjoy it. The jumbotron shows a replay of my goal, and the cheering intensifies. The Rays bench is celebrating too, laughing at the song choice. They hold out their gloved hands for me to tap as I skate past.

Gliding down the wall, I stop in front of Teddy. On the other side of the glass, he’s grinning from ear to ear. All around him, the crowd dances and cheers. Fans pound the plexiglass with their fists.

“That’s his husband,” one of Teddy’s sisters shouts again, jostling his shoulders.

Cameras flash as I slip off my glove and raise a finger, eyes now only for him. “That was one. Second goal wins me back the watch.”

Teddy laughs, flashing me the expensive Swiss timepiece. “You know I got it. So come and get it.”

T he game ends with a score of 3-1. We won, but I didn’t score our third point. That honor went to Lindberg. I suppose that means Teddy will be keeping my watch for now.

“Good game,” says Denison, patting my back as I make my way down the tunnel to the dressing room.

It was a good game. Not my best, but I haven’t been at my best for weeks now. It still felt good to be fully back in my element and doing what I love. My performance tonight gives me hope. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in the longest time. It tells me everything may just be okay.

“Hey, Karlsson! Hurry up. They need you and Jake for press!”

How could I forget?

I strip off my kit as quickly as possible.

The assistant equipment manager, Cody, takes all the pieces that will go to laundry.

After the quickest shower of my life, I tug on my Rays tech shirt and shorts and a pair of athletic slides.

The last things I grab is the pair of gold rings tucked in the inside pocket of my suit coat.

I slip the smaller ring on the pinkie of my right hand, my mother’s wedding ring.

The larger ring goes on my left hand, proof of my marriage to Teddy.

Jake is ready almost as fast. Then we make our way down the hallway towards the press corral. He nudges my shoulder as we walk. “Hey, you good?”

“I’m fine.” I know by the look on his face that he doesn’t believe me.

“K … well, I’ll be right there. Say the word, and I’ll strip my shirt off and bawk like a chicken. That’ll give them something to talk about.”

Smiling, I gesture with my hand, letting him lead the way out to the corral. Denison is waiting there to take the stage with us. Poppy appears as I turn the corner, dropping her phone from her ear the moment she catches my eye.

“Oh—hold on, Dale.” She hurries over to me, squeezes my hand, and lowers her voice.

“The release is live. The press was already buzzing with it because Janine over at ESPN dropped a ‘sneak preview’ of your interview. The little minx. I know she’s just trying to steal my thunder by stealing my headline.

But if she thinks she’ll get another favor out of me this century, she’s got another thing coming—”

“It’s okay. This all had to come out eventually.”

She releases a sharp breath. “Really? You’re not mad? I know Janine was my idea.”

“You’ve been wonderful,” I assure her. “But this is my problem. Trust me to handle it?”