Page 58 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

Despite Coach Hoyt’s words, New York got a breakaway early in the first period.

Rafe watched from the bench, holding his breath, but when Jesse swallowed the puck up, trapping it in his glove, Rafe let out a sigh of relief.

Mickey did too and Rafe glanced over to smile at him.

It was so good to have Mickey back where he belonged. Rafe nudged his thigh and, for a moment, he felt Mickey lean in.

But there was too much at stake here so they turned their attention to the game again. The play went up and down the ice for a while, with both goalies fending off some good chances, the tension rising in the building with every missed opportunity.

Slowly, Boston started to apply more pressure, forcing New York into their defensive zone. With two minutes left in the first period, Connor got a beautiful shot off, but New York’s goalie quickly snapped it up.

The score was still 0-0 as they left the ice after the first period, but they’d played well and Rafe was sure if they kept it up, they’d get one in.

Fueled and hydrated after the first intermission, Rafe grinned as he swept around the Harrier’s net on his first shift out, slamming one of New York’s forwards into the boards and stealing the puck from him. He shot the disc blindly to Mickey, who got it over to Graham.

Graham tore up the ice and sniped in a shot that snuck by the Rockets goalie into the back of the net, lighting up the lamp.

A few moments later, Rafe and Mickey collided with Graham, hollering out their appreciation as they swept him up into a hug.

“It’s about time!” Rafe said. “That was a beauty too!”

Smiling widely, Graham hugged them back. “Couldn’t have done it without you guys!”

New York had a good chance a few minutes later but Jesse swallowed the puck up, tossing it to a ref with a wink.

Unfortunately, the Rockets did sneak one in a few minutes later, tying the game up.

“We’ve still got this, guys!” Coach Hoyt shouted over the noise of the crowd hollering their appreciation. “Keep it up, keep it up.”

And Boston did.

Tanner stripped the puck from a New York player, firing it to Connor, who got a shot in moments later from the slot that lit up the lamp again.

Anker Henricksen got another goal less than a minute later and Boston left the ice at the end of the second period up 3-1.

The mood in the locker room was energetic. Not cocky or celebratory—not yet, not when there was still a period of regulation left—but it was loose and relaxed. Guys milled around, chirping one another and laughing, and Mickey shot Rafe a grin when he caught Rafe eyeing him.

“Hey, none of that,” Mickey teased around his protein bar. “Not until later.”

Rafe’s stomach tightened with anticipation.

He carried the eager anticipation into the next period but moments after the puck dropped for the faceoff, Mirsad Renner, one of New York’s defensemen, collided with Connor and left him lying on the ice, clutching his shoulder, his skin bleached white with pain.

“Fuck!” Rafe swore as he skated over to his captain. “Are you okay?”

Connor rolled onto the uninjured side and made it to his knees, swearing a blue streak as Rafe helped him to his feet. “No,” he said between gritted teeth.

And well … that had probably been a stupid question.

Connor skated off to the bench, still clutching his shoulder and went straight down the tunnel.

There was a bellow behind Rafe, and he turned in time to see Jesse crash into Mirsad Renner.

For a moment, Rafe stared as Jesse grappled with the guy, both of them toppling to the ground.

Rafe had never seen a goalie go apeshit like that before, not like that , but it had a been a bad hit from the New York defenseman on his boyfriend and, well, Rafe couldn’t blame him.

And oh fuck, Renner’s teammates hadn’t taken kindly to it because they were pulling Jesse off and …

Rafe skated toward the tussle as Jesse started swinging.

Rafe pulled one of the New York players away and grappled with him.

Rafe wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was tall and he had a good reach, managing to grab the front of the guy’s jersey and duck as the guy took a swing at him.

The guy was shouting something—maybe about Jesse being a crazy fucker?—and Rafe had managed to land an awkward punch on the guy’s jaw when a linesman dragged him away.

Panting, Rafe struggled against the grip, nearly deafened by the screaming and hollering that had erupted from the crowd. He could see Coach Hoyt shouting something from the bench, but he didn’t have a clue what he was saying over the noise.

Graham was the alternate captain, and with Connor out, it was his job to talk to the refs.

To Rafe’s surprise, Mickey went over too.

It took a while to sort everything out, but in the end, penalties were assigned to both teams. Crawford went to the box in lieu of Jesse, since goalies weren’t allowed to serve their own penalties.

Rafe got a penalty too, which seemed like total bullshit to him, but he went to the box along with Crawford.

A moment later, the glass beside them rattled. “Hey, Crawford!” a guy called out. “That was weak. I’ve seen better hands on a digital clock.”

Rafe glanced over to see who was talking but no one was looking at the penalty box.

Crawford didn’t even look that direction as he called back, “Hey, you might want to stop trying to think of an original chirp there, bud. I’m starting to smell smoke.”

Rafe smothered a laugh but Crawford scowled.

“Fucking New Yorkers. I hate playing here. That guy over there in the vintage Rockets jersey never fuckin’ stops with the chirping. Every fucking game. I swear he has it out for me.”

Rafe snorted. “Like you aren’t even worse to their players.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t count when I’m the one doing it, remember?” Crawford winked and bared his teeth, the missing one giving him a slightly ghoulish smile.

Rafe laughed.

A moment later, the fan fired another chirp back, with Crawford deflecting it without even looking again. Remembering Crawford’s description that he was wearing a vintage jersey, Rafe glanced around to see if he could find the guy.

Rafe spotted the New York fan immediately, the old design impossible to miss. He seemed pretty normal to Rafe, to be honest. He was about Rafe’s age, or maybe a few years older.

Good-looking, with dark curly hair and heavy stubble.

The guy glanced over and met his gaze. He looked Rafe over for a moment. He didn’t smile but he didn’t glare or say anything before he turned back to the woman he sat next to.

He seemed pretty chill right now, actually.

Rafe shrugged and reached for a towel to polish his visor with. Well, maybe he just hated Crawford. Honestly, with as much of an asshole as he could be on the ice, Rafe couldn’t blame the guy.

He had to laugh though as Crawford and the Rockets fan traded insults back and forth throughout the period while Crawford’s gaze never left the ice.

Rafe watched too, swearing when New York got off a shot during their power play, bringing the score to 3-2.

Rafe was stepping out of the box when the guy called out again, “Hey, Crawford, I would call you a tool but that’d imply you’re useful.”

“Ahh fuck you, man, I’ve heard better chirps from a dead bird,” Crawford shot back as he followed Rafe onto the ice.

The guy made a cooing noise like a pigeon and then the door shut behind them.

“I fucking hate New York,” Tanner grumbled as Rafe slid onto the bench a few moments later.

“Seriously,” Rafe said with a sigh and Crawford just grunted.

As the minutes ticked down in the third period, New York scored again, tying the score.

Mickey wondered if they were heading to overtime. The Harriers had lost their lead and, apparently, their cool.

Hoyt was furious at the New York player who’d injured Connor—he still wasn’t back yet—at Jesse for going after the guy, at the rest of them for not stopping New York’s goal … at pretty much everything, actually.

“What part of smothering the offense aren’t you guys getting?” he shouted as New York got another great opportunity. The puck didn’t make it in, but only because of Jesse’s diving save.

Tanner returned to the bench after his shift and Mickey nudged Rafe to move over so Tanner could slide in beside him.

He grabbed one of the tablets from Coach Rasmussen and brought up the previous play. “Look,” he shouted over the noise of the crowd. “You’re pinching too late.”

Tanner frowned down at the tablet. “What? Are you sure?”

“Yes! See?”

He used his finger to demonstrate, showing Tanner what he meant, and Tanner nodded.

“Okay, I’ll try next shift out.”

Mickey handed the tablet back and got an approving pat on the shoulder from Coach Rasmussen.

Tanner did do better on his next shift out and Mickey bumped gloves with him after. “Yeah, like that,” he said. “Keep doing that.”

But it was on Mickey’s next shift when a New York player forced a turnover and tore up the ice. Mickey raced up after him, calling out to Rafe to move, to come in on their flank …

But it was too late. With horrifying quickness, the guy put on an extra burst of speed and a moment later, the puck was in the back of the net and the crowd was on their feet, screaming their approval.

With the game 4-3 in New York’s favor and with just over a minute to go, the Harriers set up for the next faceoff.

Anker’s face was grim as he swiped the puck away and shot it back to Mickey.

Legs burning, heart racing, Mickey tore toward New York’s net, firing the puck to Graham across the ice at the first opportunity he saw.

Graham hammered it in but it bounced off the goalie’s chest. In the crease, guys battled for control of the rebound and Graham jabbed his stick in the midst of the frenzy, his jaw clenched …

Mickey shouldered closer, trying to push guys out of the way, trying to give Graham a chance. All they needed was one tiny goal. One tiny goal and they could go to overtime. They’d still have a shot at it …

The buzzer sounded, ending the game.