Escorting me to the employee parking deck, he says, “I want to get together as soon as I’m back, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, excited beyond belief for his return, and he hasn’t even left yet.
“Lunch?”
“I’d love that.”
At my car, he waits for me to get my keys out and open the door. He kisses me, softly at first, then a little deeper.
Just a promise of what will be in the future.
As I settle into the seat, he leans in slightly with his arm on the door. “Text me as soon as you get home so I know you’re safe.”
I almost cry at that request, but I manage a nod. “I will.”
Another kiss and then he closes the door. Gage doesn’t move as he watches me back out and pull away.
The drive to my place is short, and within fifteen minutes, I’m inside and texting him. Home safe. Thank you for a great evening.
I don’t even know where Gage lives in relation to the arena. I don’t know if he went home already or back out. I don’t know if he’s driving, but he replies quickly, I had a great time too.
Staring at the screen, I feel like I need to say something else. But rather than type it out, I call him.
He answers on the second ring, and I can hear the connection to Bluetooth and know he’s in his car. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. I’m fine. But… well, I like to hear your voice, so I thought I’d call and thank you the proper way.”
Gage laughs in appreciation. “I’m glad you like hearing my voice the way I like hearing yours. Now, get some sleep.”
“I will.”
“Dream of me,” he adds.
“Guaranteed,” I reply with a sigh. “Good night, Gage.”
“Good night, Jenna.”
CHAPTER 12
Gage
It’s the slap shot ricocheting off the goalpost and up into the net that causes the ref to blow the whistle. The light at the score table goes on, and a TV timeout is called. Keller motions with his hand for the first line to stay on the ice, not that it would make a difference who was out here. We’re down 4–0 against the Detroit Cardinals with only fourteen seconds left.
This game is done.
Why the fuck we have to wait for a commercial is beyond me, especially with so little time left. I guess that shit is preprogrammed with advertisers, but I’d give anything right now if they’d just drop the puck again and put us out of our fucking misery. It was a clusterfuck from the start and only went downhill from there.
Detroit has been playing like they’re on fire, and we never stepped up to the challenge.
The first major disaster happened in the first period. Jesper injured himself—groin pull—and has been back in the locker room since. Our backup goalie, Patrik Stenlund, stepped in and immediately crashed and burned. He’s a good goalie, but he’s not one you can depend on in a clutch situation. While he has more natural talent than Jesper, he’s ruled by emotion, and every time Detroit scored a goal, he just got worse. The fact that we’re only down by four is a shocker to me, but our defense has been holding their own.
Coach Keller is in an unbearable mood, and rather than being corny and encouraging, which no one really likes, he’s been screaming red-faced like an enraged bull the entire game, which everyone really hates. There seems to be no good with this guy, and I’m over him.
I’m ready for this evening to be over so we can rack up the loss and get home to Pittsburgh where I can see Jenna tomorrow.
Our line glides to the bench to grab water bottles. Keller starts ranting, particularly at Stone for that last shot that went off the pipe and up into the net. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dumelin. If you can hit a three-inch pipe, you can surely slide it down three inches to go in.”
Stone doesn’t take the bait, merely squirts water in his mouth and stares at Keller.
“This has got to be the absolute worst performance I’ve seen from you men out on the ice. Absolutely embarrassing.”
“Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?” Coen says dryly.
Coen pushes Keller’s buttons all the time, and this one gets him good. His face mottles from red to purple as he points at Coen. “Watch your fucking mouth. I’m the boss and you’re not.”
Rather than be intimidated or shamed in any way, Coen actually smirks at Keller, and they engage in a staring contest.
Coen has zero fucks to give anymore, and it’s Keller who looks away first, turning on our defensemen, Kirill Zucker and Nolan Carrier, neither of whom deserve his wrath. They’re the two who’ve kept this from being a much bigger loss.
I move over to Coen and give him a reassuring tap on the side of his leg with my stick. A silent, Just keep your cool. It’s almost over.
Coen apparently takes it as an open invitation to converse about his woes on the ice tonight. “That fucker McNabb is going to get his in the next fourteen seconds.”
My head swivels to Coen as Keller continues to rant, but no one is listening. “McNabb?”
He’s a defenseman for Detroit and has been playing a stellar game. He’s tied Coen up a lot, but all within the bounds of the rules and hasn’t drawn a penalty yet.
Coen sneers. “Yeah… I’m going to teach that fucker a lesson he won’t forget.”
“Coen,” I warn, but the red light goes off and the refs call everyone to the face-off circle.
As we gather around in our positions, myself in the center ready to take the puck, my eyes drift over to Coen. He’s not even watching us but rather has his eyes are lasered across the circle at McNabb.
Son of a bitch.
He’s going to make a move, and I can’t stop it.
The puck drops, and I dig deep to reach it before my opponent. In an effort to avert catastrophe in these last few seconds of the game, I hit it Coen’s way.
It’s not perfect, but he could’ve easily grabbed it.
Instead, he’s taking off after McNabb and the puck lands on a Cardinal’s stick instead.
“Shit,” I mutter, letting Kirill pick up the guy with the puck.
Everything seems to slow down as Coen careens toward his quarry. He gives him a hard push across his back, and McNabb whirls around.
Coen drops his gloves—the declaration he’s ready to fight.
McNabb has no choice. One doesn’t walk away from gloves on the ice, so his follow.
The two men clash, grabbing each other’s jerseys and trying to unpin an arm to throw a punch.
The refs whistle the play dead, keeping an eye on the combatants. With the clock stopped at eleven seconds, everyone watches.
It’s Coen who lands the first punch, able to free his right arm while holding the front of McNabb’s jersey. He cocks back and lets it fly, catching the other man on the side of his helmet.
McNabb snarls, jerks his own arm free, and lands three quick punches to Coen’s face. When he pulls his fist back from the last strike, blood trickles from a cut at Coen’s eyebrow. That’s all the refs need to rush in and stop the fight.
Except Coen’s still lipping at McNabb, cursing at the refs, and trying his darnedest to restart the brawl.
I move in, as does every other player on the ice. There’s yelling and name-calling, but the players try to deescalate by pulling McNabb and Coen apart. Kirill and Stone put hands on Coen’s shoulders, not to restrain him but to encourage him to back off. One of the refs gets in between. He’s a good guy—Andre Sneed—who’s been in the league as long as I have.