“Who cares,” Fiona says, making room for me on the bench.
“I care!” I turn slowly around, looking at the faces in the stands. Then I face my team, and my voice goes high and squeaky. “Do you realize what this means? Do you see what’s going on here? The Bruisers play in front of fifteen thousand fans every night. But I had to drunk-marry one of them to draw an audience!”
I expect their faces to fall, because my anger frequently lands badly. But Fiona only beams. “We have this chance to show the whole world how awesome women’s hockey is. They showed up and bought tickets, Charli. They paid to watch this game.”
“Hell, I’d play topless if it meant selling out every night,” someone else says.
I just groan. “Guys, we have to win this thing. We have to dominate. The only thing worse than packing a stadium for the wrong reasons would be losing in it.”
“Acknowledged,” Fiona says. “We can beat Albany.”
My attention turns, as it should, to the opponent’s bench. None of them are gazing around at the fans. Their heads are bent together in consultation. They want to win this thing, too.
“All rise for the national anthem!” the announcer calls.
I place my hand on my heart. Even through my chest pad I can feel its rapid thud.
Please, Lord. Let me put up a good showing tonight. I know I shouldn’t care that everyone is watching this screwed-up Philly chick hit a puck with a stick.
It’s just that everyone is watching.
Note to self—a big crowd fires everyone up. Even your opponent.
The game is a dogfight right from the first puck drop, and Albany is feisty. The first period is a blur whereby we fight to keep the puck in our offensive zone.
I’m skating backward at high speed, listening to Scarlet’s chatter from the net as if my life depends on it. “Samantha—man on! Close it in, girls. Clear it out! Move, Charli!”
The benefit of having a tough opponent is that there’s really no time to think about all the other bullshit in your life. If you don’t keep your head in the game, you won’t be in the game for very long.
I get in there and fight for it. I get my stick on the puck and move it where it has to go. But it’s rough sledding, and by the time my first several shifts are done, a few patterns have emerged.
First, Albany doesn’t miss their sniper as much as I’d hoped. They’ve doubled down on defensive clout and sheer grit.
Second, Albany has replaced its sniper with a hellion. A very small hellion, but still.
“Steady on,” Coach Sasha says over my shoulder. “And watch out for number twenty-seven. Seems like the new girl is just getting started.”
I take a drink and follow the play. Number twenty-seven is surprisingly fast. But she’s small, and she looks young. I’m not all that worried.
That proves to be a mistake. She resembles a mosquito in a camping tent—all that buzz, right in your ear. No matter how frequently you swat at her, she dodges you. Every time I get the puck, the little freak runs me ragged.
And then? That bitch strips me with a poke check so fast that I barely see her stick move. And she rips a shot right between my legs.
I hear Scarlet curse as she dives for it.
The crowd makes a noise of grave disappointment, and the lamp lights.
“Nutmegged!” my scrappy little opponent cackles.
“Shi—shkabob!” I scream.
Another Albany player skates past me. “I wonder what your husband thinks of that?”
On an ordinary night I would have chirped right back. I’ve got a million comeback chirps in my repertoire. Cross me? I will colorfully insult your skating, your team mascot, your face, your mama, her mama, and her mama’s mama.
But a chirp about my marriage to Neil? That’s a new one. I’ve got nothing.
We set up for another faceoff and the period grinds on. Number twenty-seven gets more irritating. Behind that cute little button nose lies the heart of a piranha on speed. She’s everywhere at once, and her bite is sharp.
I’ve faced all kinds of players. I know how to adapt. But number twenty-seven picks apart my game. One by one, my usual tactics fail, like bowling pins falling over in slow motion. She manages to slip past me time and time again.
Then she picks me off. She fires a wrister past Scarlet’s shoulder and the lamp lights.
The crowd groans. Loudly.
Very, very loudly.
“All right. It happens. Get it back,” Fiona says, giving me an extra-long glance as she skates past.
She’s right. We’ve been here before. It’s only a small failure.
But as I set up for the next faceoff, it occurs to me that this failure will be written up in a dozen more places than usual.
That ugly thought slows me down. For a split second, I’ve let them get inside my head. And it’s just long enough to slow my reaction time as the puck drops.
I flub a pass, Albany grabs it, and they shoot again.
Scarlet saves it this time, but we’re still down 0-2, and it’s probably all my fault.
When we troop back upstairs for intermission, it’s very quiet during Sasha’s speech. “You can do this,” she says, her voice deadly serious. “You’ve beaten this team more than once. Sure, it feels a little different out there tonight. But this is your game. This is your house. You have everything it takes to come through on the other side.”
In my head I know she’s right, but my heart isn’t convinced.
I play like crap as the second period commences. Every time number twenty-seven zooms in my direction, I feel doomed.
At least my teammates are faring better. Samantha puts one in the basket eight minutes into the second period.
“That’s it, babies!” Sasha crows. “Now do it again!”
I fight on, but everywhere I turn, my mosquito is there with her stinger. She’s in the corner when I’m scrapping for the puck. She’s in my face when I’m defending the zone.
She’s just there, and it’s making me insane. She’s fucking smiling at me, and I want to choke something.
So I trip her, instead.
The whistle blows immediately. Of course, it does.
“Not so fancy now, are you?” she says, getting up off the ice. “Can’t wait to read about your loss tomorrow in Sports Illustrated.”
Gah! My hands itch to push her down. I actually tilt in her direction.
“Nope,” Fiona says, cutting me off. “Nope nope nope.” My teammate gives me a nudge in the direction of the penalty box, where the official is holding the door open.
Fuck.
I skate toward the box, feeling beaten. I already know I’m too far inside my head. I know exactly how I’m fucking this up, but I can’t seem to get a handle on myself.
The bench hits my ass, and I resign myself to two minutes of watching my teammates try to fend off a power play. Everyone on the ice is skating hard, but I swear number twenty-seven gives me a snide smile as she whizzes by.
Someone thunks loudly on the plexi behind me, and I tune it out. But then it comes again, two heavy bangs of a fist. I turn around, and there’s Neil, his earnest eyes staring seriously into mine.
My heart drops a little further, because I’d forgotten that Neil was part of the crowd of people watching me screw up.