Leo: Your room number is . . .
Georgia: . . . is the same one as Becca’s. See above explanation about the full hotel.
Leo: Fuck.
Georgia: Not so much.
Leo: I need to kiss you. Today.
Georgia: Is this some new superstition thing? Like your lucky jock strap in high school?
Leo: Fuck no. I need to kiss you. Everywhere. Soon. Before you invent a bunch of reasons why we shouldn’t.
Georgia: Too late.
Leo: Not funny. We’ll talk later. I miss you.
Georgia: What ever happened to your lucky jock strap? Please tell me you finally washed that thing.
Leo: Nope! I don’t wear it anymore tho.
Georgia: Thank god
Leo: It’s in a zipper bag at the bottom of my gear duffel. It was ten feet from the bed where we . . .
Georgia: Ew!
Leo: :)
TWENTY
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11
18 DAYS BEFORE THE NHL TRADE DEADLINE
DALLAS, TEXAS
TOP TEAM HEADLINES:
“Dallas Has a 7-1 Record vs. Brooklyn in Recent Match-ups. Let’s Make it Eight?”
—The Dallas Tribune
Leo caught himself humming in the showers after the morning warm-up. Everything had gone right for a change. He didn’t know whether his attitude had been buoyed by last game’s goal or yesterday morning’s perfect reunion with Georgia. Maybe both. But whatever the cause, he’d killed it at practice yesterday and this morning. Even during the three-on-twos at the bitter end, he’d sliced past O’Doul and made the puck his own.
After the morning skate he’d stayed behind a few minutes because the associate coach wanted to talk to him about Dallas’s defensive habits. Leo was the last man off the ice, and he thought he caught even Coach Worthington wearing a look of grudging approval.
Finally. A little momentum.
He shut off the tap and reached outside the stall for the towel he’d hung there. But his hand met only a hook and cool air. So Leo stuck his head past the discolored shower curtain and checked the hooks on either side of his stall. They were both empty.
Fuck.
He stepped out anyway, dripping wet, wearing nothing but his shower shoes. Someone had decided he needed a little middle-school-grade hazing. The stack of clean towels he’d seen on the counter ten minutes earlier was missing, too.
Whatever.
Leo walked into the dressing room, where several guys snickered. As he passed O’Doul he made sure to shake himself like a dog, sending droplets of water flying everywhere.
The snickers turned to full-out laughter, except from O’Doul, who swore. “It wasn’t me, asshole. Castro loves to pull that shit.”
“Good to know.” He crossed to his locker and looked for something—anything—to dry himself off. Yesterday’s T-shirt? Good enough. He swatted at the drops of water on his chest and neck.
“Hey, naked boy.” O’Doul stood beside him, frowning.
“Yeah?” He dug his underwear out of his duffel.
“We gonna win this thing tonight?”
Leo chuckled. “That’s the plan, right?” Though Dallas was a tough team, and the Bruisers’ record against them wasn’t the best.
“Sure. But there’s a defenseman on this crew who has it in for me. One of their guys was injured in our game last season. Career-ending. You remember Burkowski?”
“Yeah. Broken femur?”
“That’s the one. It was a clean hit, but they still blame us. And then I embarrassed this other asshole in a fight during the preseason. He wants a rematch. You’re the new kid so he’ll probably fuck with you to draw me out.”
Great. Leo wasn’t exactly known for his fighting. Unlike so many other NHL players, he’d skipped Juniors in favor of college hockey, where fighting was illegal. “You want me to take a swing at him?”
“Fuck no. Just put the biscuit in the basket, college boy. I’ll follow up. Just watch your back.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Leo got dressed, wondering if O’Doul had decided to count him as a real teammate after all.
* * *
When the player card went to the refs before the game that night, Leo half expected his name to be missing from it. In spite of his big night in Arizona, he wouldn’t put it past Coach to try to teach him a lesson in humility.
But apparently not. Because his name was on the card. And he was ready.
The mood was a little slap-happy in the locker room. Castro hid several players’ protective cups during elimination soccer, and was chased around the dressing room and pelted with them when they were eventually found. But O’Doul wasn’t part of the pregame shenanigans tonight. Instead, the captain sat in the corner, his head bowed. And every few minutes he muttered to himself.
Leo nudged Silas. “He okay?”
Silas shrugged. “Guess so. That’s how he stirs up the crazy before a rough game. He’ll be okay after we start.”
Leo felt buoyant, in spite of his team’s edgy attitude toward its opponent. His phone was full of well-wishes from his family and friends. This was it, ladies and gentlemen. The highest level of play a guy could see in professional hockey.
They gathered around for a last-minute chat with Coach Karl, who looked even more ornery than usual. “This could be a real shit storm. Just let the refs do their thing and don’t lose your cool, boys. Revenge doesn’t get us to the play-offs, you hear?”
There were murmurs of agreement, then the chute door opened and it was on.
As predicted, the game got ugly early. Lots of tripping and slashing in the corners. Leo found himself playing dirtier than he liked to. And he took two minutes for tripping before the first period was over.
Coach had a few choice words about that during intermission. “If you’re gonna fight back, rookie, don’t be so fucking blatant. Even my aunt Sally would have called that penalty.”
Leo barked out a laugh. “I’ve met Aunt Sally and she’s hella sharp.”
Worthington only growled.
Leo’s sense of humor took a hit early in the second period, though. The faceoff positioned him against an opposing wing with a snaggle-toothed snarl. “That face won’t stay pretty tonight, boy. Rookie’s gonna get ass-fucked up by my enforcer,” he threatened.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Leo barked without taking his eyes off the ref’s hands. Seconds later, the puck came flying out of the circle in his direction. Leo snapped it out of the air with his stick, winging it back to his own defensemen in a blur of motion.