He presses his cardboard sign to the plexi. I don’t see the shiny face of another Go Bombshells sign. Neil has flipped his around and scrawled something on the back.
For a second, I’m confused. Neil’s message is not the upbeat PR message I was expecting. It’s not a You got this! Instead, it’s a question.
WHO’S STRONGER?
That’s it. That’s the whole message.
I glance up into Neil’s hazel eyes, and he holds my gaze for a long beat. Then he lifts his chin toward the game, and I turn around to look.
There’s number twenty-seven buzzing Fiona. She’s such a little, infuriating skater. Quick as lightning.
But strength and speed don’t always pair up, do they? And I’m starting to take Neil’s meaning. There’s no mass there. Only flash.
Huh. Okay.
“Ten seconds,” says the official.
I stand up. And I can’t help but glance over my shoulder one more time. Neil is still watching me. He doesn’t try to say anything. He just winks so quickly I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it.
Then I’m stepping onto the ice and powering toward our net, where Albany has swarmed, looking for an opportunity to score.
I bulldoze my way into the action. A sweaty Fiona passes me the puck, and I move it out of our zone, pushing forward.
Here comes number twenty-seven, looking for a poke check.
This time, I don’t try to outsmart her. I use my body to hold her off the puck until I can pass to Samantha. It’s not flashy. It won’t make a good headline. But it gets the job done.
We’re still in this. The game is only half over. I need to stop freaking out and play a boring, dependable game of hockey.
So that’s what I’ll do.
EIGHTEEN
PINT-SIZED TORMENTOR
Neil
My blood sugar drops at the end of the second period.
“Dude, your phone is beeping,” Castro says, nudging my knee with his.
“Right. Thanks.” I dig into my pocket for my glucose tabs and stick one in my mouth.
“Weren’t you eating this?” my teammate nags me, tapping the forgotten packet of trail mix in my hand.
“Who could eat?” I say, dipping my hand in for a couple of nuts anyway. “This is such a close game.”
Leo Trevi chuckles on my other side. “Relax, man. Charli is pulling it together.”
He’s not wrong. As I crunch on some nuts and dried apples, Charli skates like a woman possessed. It took her a while, but she finally found her center, especially against that little demon who keeps trying to piss her off.
They’re both in a corner now, and I forget to chew as they fight for the puck. Charli makes herself into a human cage, with a wide stance and shoulders that won’t budge. She boxes number twenty-seven out and then passes the puck around the boards to Samantha.
“YEAH BABY!” I scream. I stand up and pound on the plexi. “That’s the way it’s done!”
My teammates crack up.
“It’s a good thing you don’t come to all her games,” Leo says. “You’ve already developed, like, several nervous ticks in the past hour. I swear you were less invested in our Stanley Cup final last year.”
“Oh, please. It’s just this matchup,” I argue. “It’s so tense, am I right?”
There’s more laughter.
I shove the nuts into my pocket, because rabbit food just isn’t doing it for me tonight. “Does anyone have some more popcorn?” Or maybe a sedative? Someone hands me a box of popcorn, “Thanks.” I shove some into my mouth. The truth is that I am a little worked up. I need the Bombshells to win so badly in front of all these people.
It would make Charli so happy. And she deserves that, especially after the hard week she just had. Heck, she deserves it anyway.
But the victory won’t come easily. The game grinds on. I gasp when Brooklyn gets lucky with a sloppy goal in front of the net, but then I gasp again when an erratic shot from Albany pings off our post and goes into the net.
By the end of the third, we’ve fought our way to a 3-3 tie, and I’m eating my feelings while they set up for an overtime period.
“You make marriage look like hard work,” Anton says, elbowing me from the seat behind mine.
“Oh, it is,” I grumble through my popcorn.
“If they win, are you getting victory nookie?” Castro asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I growl.
“We all would, actually,” Anton says.
I’m not even listening anymore, because the team is back. Charli’s expression is pure determination as they set up for the first overtime faceoff.
“Let’s do this! Let’s put this game to bed!” Anton calls, clapping loudly.
The puck drops, and our girls win it. They make a couple of decisive passes, and I realize I’m leaning forward in my seat with both fists clenched. The women play by the same sudden-death overtime rules that we do, so all it takes is one goal to end the game. Overtime is exhausting, though. You’re playing on shaking legs and an empty tank.
“Come on, baby!” I yell as Charli whips past me. “Bring it home!”
“He’s totally in it for the victory sex,” someone murmurs.
But my attention is one hundred percent spoken for as Charli faces off against her irritating little opponent for the millionth time. Charli is trying to keep her off the puck, while Samantha and Fiona try to make a play.
The puck is knocked loose by an Albany player, and as it shoots toward Charli, I forget to breathe. I press my hands against the plexi and yell, even though she can’t hear me. “Don’t foul her!” A power play is the last thing we need right now.
Charli hunkers down and gets the puck on her stick. Her tormentor tries to take it, but Charli doesn’t budge. She’s looking for an opening and not finding one.
Meanwhile, her opponent is elbowing the shit out of Charli’s ribs.
“Foul!” I call. “Open your eyes, ref!”
Then— Shit! She trips Charli, who goes down hard.
“FOUL!” I scream. “Assault and battery!”
“Oh, so you’re one of those hockey fans, now,” Newgate says, taking the popcorn out of my hand.
“Did you see that bullshit?” I yelp.
The whistle shrieks. Finally. And the ref calls the foul.
“Yes! Fuck! Get in that penalty box, you bad thing.” I wave my hand toward the box that the official is opening now.
“Oh my God, sit down,” Heidi Jo says, grabbing my shoulders from behind and guiding me back into my seat. “It’s bad form to go Hulk Smash on a player who weighs ninety-five pounds in her gear.”
“She has it coming,” I grumble. “I’ve put up with her bullshit all night long.”
“You have, huh?” Someone snickers.
Nothing can distract me, though, from the next two minutes of on-ice action. The Bombshells make a series of careful, accurate passes in their offensive zone, playing keep-away from their opponent who is desperate to send the puck whizzing away from the crease.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter as the seconds tick down. “You can do this.”