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FORTY-TWO

AIDEN

Vincent Lukov is a bully. Like that kid in high school who doesn’t get enough attention, so he just keeps chirping, hoping someone will look in his direction. He’s mean, miserable, and too dumb to realize that no one cares what he thinks.

I’m focused on the puck in the ref’s hand. New York’s center is vying for it with his stick, just like I am, so Lukov’s taunts don’t even register.

The sound of the crowd is deafening, but the moment the puck drops and I slice, the dance begins. My skates grind into the ice as I push forward, but Lukov is right on my heels. He slices at my skates, coming after my scraps like he always does, but my vision tunnels as my body takes over. I could play hockey with my eyes closed.

“What? You can’t face me now that I stole your girl?” he jeers behind me.

I just hum my tune, ignoring him.

“Now dip, War, dip,” I holler.

War nods and does just that, dipping behind, luring the defenseman trailing his ass to circle back toward him.

“To the left,” Daniel shouts. The idiots around us think he’s talking to me, rather than singing the lyrics to our next play, and they almost leave enough room for me to slide my stick in that direction. But it’s War who appears to the left of me now, jutting out his stick, tearing between Lukov and me as I break away. The plan is that Lukov will either trip or be delayed, but I’m too focused on the net and the man who stands between me and my goal to worry much about it.

A muffled “fuck,” followed by a thud sounds behind me, and I assume he’s gone down. Then my teammates are pressing forward and into position.

“To the right,” I hum, almost coming to a stop in front of the goalie, Matteo Rodego, who is braced for my shot. The rest of his team is almost caught up now.

I fake it right, and then slash the puck over his left shoulder and into the goal.

“Didn’t expect you to dance with us, Rodego,” I yell, laughing, as Daniel and War tackle me in celebratory hugs.

Less than a minute into the game, Boston has a goal on the scoreboard. My heart pounds, and adrenaline courses through me. While I’ve scored hundreds of goals in my career, none have felt better than this one. Because she’s here, and she’s wearing my name on her back.

Every guy has their celly, their celebration after a goal. Some dance, some have a signature move, some just enjoy the thrill of hugging their guys. Me? In high school, my move was all for her. I did it after every goal because she was always there to cheer me on. First as my best friend and then as my everything. Today, she’s once again both.

My moves are slick like Michael Jackson doing the moonwalk. It’s instinct. Like my body has been waiting years to do this again. Not once have I had the opportunity since I hit the NHL.

Turning to the camera, I put my hand on my heart, then bring my fingers to my lips and blow Lennox a kiss. If I knew where she was sitting, I’d point right at her. But in the general direction of where she was headed before the game will have to work.

She knows exactly what that move is. Wherever she is, she’s catching the kiss and smiling. Fingers on her lips, knowing that this goal, like all my future goals, is for her.

With a smile still on my face, I turn, only to find Lukov coming straight for me.

Motherfucker.

“You’re a little late to the block,” I call, skating past him.

He grabs me by the jersey, clearly looking for the fight. “I’ll let you have that one since I stole your girl.”

With a shove, I scoff. “From the way she tells it, you didn’t steal her. You pawned her off on me, hoping I’d pay to keep her. Joke’s on you, though. I’m not Blockbuster. I don’t keep rentals.”

Jaw clenching, he yanks his gloves off and throws them to the ice. Looks like I’ve hit a nerve. He wants this. Joke’s on him again. I’m too fucking happy to fight.

He’s just another bully seeking attention, and I have no interest in wasting any of mine on him.

Unfortunately, the hate he spews next is impossible to ignore.

I spin on him, tossing my gloves too. From the look on his face, shock mixed with fear, he knows he’s taken this seventy thousand steps too far. I rear back and slam my fist into his throat,aiming for his vocal cords, hoping to do enough damage to keep him from ever speaking again.