The third period kicks off. Pitti once again is under attack, and once again holding his own against Toronto’s powerful offense.
At least until the dive. It’s not as beautiful and fluid as the dive he took in the first period. This time it’s clunky and all wrong, and two Toronto forwards accidentally collide with him when he’s down. There’s a scuffle, and Pitti is blocked from my view. Whistles blow. The refs skate over to the net.
Relief washes over me when Pitti is helped up. He’s okay. He made the save and took a couple of hits, but—
He’s not okay, I realize.
He’s cradling his stick arm, holding it tight to his chest. One of the refs is urgently speaking to him, and Pitti begins shaking his head. His padded shoulders droop slightly as he begins to skate away from the net.
On the bench, all eyes turn to me.
5
Wes
Injuries suck. They really, really suck.
With that said, we’re already beating San Jose by one, and now we’re about to play the last fourteen minutes facing their third-string goalie? We’ll be up by a dozen goals by the time this game ends.
I feel for Tim Pitti, I really do. He’s clearly in pain as he heads for the tunnel toward the locker room. I wasn’t on the ice for that play, but Blake said he heard a bone snap. The mere thought makes me shiver.
Injuries come with the gig, though. And while I sympathize with Pitti, I’m not complaining about this latest development.
“Who’s the back-up’s back-up?” Lemming asks blankly.
“No clue,” Eriksson answers.
“It’s that dude,” Blake supplies, his gloved hand jerking toward the home team’s bench.
I snort. “No shit, Sherlock. But what’s his name? Have we faced him before?”
Our gazes are all glued to the San Jose player skating toward the net. His mask isn’t on but his back is to us so we can’t see his face. And his jersey doesn’t have a name, just the number 33. At the net, he slaps his gloves on, then turns slightly, flashing a profile.
“Kinda looks like J-Bomb,” Blake remarks.
“That kinda is J-Bomb,” I growl, shooting to my feet. Well, my skates.
What the hell is happening? Why is Jamie wearing a San Jose uniform and manning their net?
I’m two seconds from vaulting over the wall when I get a sharp reprimand from Coach. Also, the PA system chooses that moment to announce that a one mister Jamie Canning is now the goaltender for San Jose.
Amazed laughter spills out of my mouth. He’s on the emergency goalie list, I suddenly remember. He’s filling in for an injured Pitti.
“He’s giggling like a madman,” Blake tells our teammates. “Wesley’s lost it.”
“Do you blame him?” Eriksson starts laughing too. “Canning’s in net? Shit, this is epic.”
“Epic,” Blake echoes.
And then there’s no more time for discussion, because a new faceoff begins and suddenly I’m watching my own teammates play against my own husband.
So. Fucking. Trippy.
It doesn’t take long for the memories to flood my brain. Jamie’s skill with the glove. His lightning-fast reflexes. The concentration, and the sheer calm—that’s what always used to impress me about him when we faced off in college. He never, ever lost his cool. Nothing fazed him when he was tending that net.
“Change it up,” Coach barks, and my line hops off the bench and takes the ice. I’m skating center, with Blake at my left and O’Connor to my right. Our D-men are Laurier and Matin. Our five best players, all zeroing in on Jamie Canning.
But he can handle it. He stops Blake’s wrist shot, makes a save on the rebound, and then flicks the puck to a San Jose forward, who flies away with it. Now we’re on defense. We spend the rest of our shift trying to stop San Jose from scoring on us. I’m out of breath by the time Coach calls for another line change. I heave myself over the wall as sweat drips down my face.
“Look at J-Bomb go!” Blake crows.
Like I can look at anything else. He’s fucking incredible. He makes three more saves on this next shift, and then, to our dismay, one of the San Jose D-men capitalizes on an errant rebound and gets a lucky wrister past our goalie.
The game is tied. The hometown crowd is screaming, encouraging their guys. The few Toronto fans in the stands shout their own encouragement. Their energy fuels me as I take the ice again. Five minutes left—that’s plenty of time.
I win the faceoff and dump the puck. Blake gives chase and gets his stick on it, snapping the puck back to me. But it’s stolen by a D-man and San Jose is on the attack again. This time our goalie holds them off, and when the puck lands on my stick, I suddenly find myself on a breakaway.
Adrenaline sizzles through me as I charge the opposing net, where Canning stands guard.
This feels familiar. So fucking familiar. And I swear he sticks his tongue out at me when he denies me the goal. His glove closes around it, and frustration follows me all the way back to the bench.
It feels familiar because it is familiar. The one-on-one shootouts we had when we were kids are branded in my memory. Particularly because the last one led to my mouth on Jamie’s dick. Our summers at hockey camp in Lake Placid were the best of my life. It’s where I fell in love with Jamie. It’s where we reconnected, and where he fell in love with me.
Jesus, how far we’ve come. Childhood friends, to lovers, to husband and husband.
Life is a beautiful thing.
When I play hockey, I’m always riding a high, but tonight it’s two highs. It’s adrenaline and excitement, and pure fucking love as I watch Jamie make four more saves over the next few minutes. When there are two minutes left, Eriksson takes a stupid penalty and San Jose gets themselves a juicy power play. I’m on the ice for the penalty kill, but the sharks are hungry, and thirty seconds in, they score.
The home crowd goes wild.
Toronto isn’t able to tie it up. We lose to the home team, and while I’m disappointed, I also can’t deny that I’m secretly happy for Jamie. His teammates swarm the ice and I lose sight of him in the massive show of celebration, but I know he must be over the fucking moon. And I’m glad for him. He deserves every bit of praise that’s going to be poured on him tonight.
He deserves the world.
6
Wes
“Where. The fuck. Are we?” Blake asks, his eyes roaming the sleek, achingly hip room. “Silicon Valley does weird things to its bars.”
He’s not wrong. I’m holding a twenty-two-dollar cocktail, while blue light and techno music washes over us. “This is how I’d picture a bar on the Starship Enterprise.”
“Nah,” my teammate Will O’Connor says. “Where are the alien women with three tits?”
Forget the alien women. Where is Jamie? I take a sip of my over-priced cocktail and scan the room again. I’m aching to see his blond head pop out of the crowd. But no. It’s just us.
After their win, San Jose sent a messenger to our locker room to tell us to meet ’em here. You can have your goalie back after we buy him a drink, the note said.