Chapter Eighteen
Tristan
“Okay, guys, it’s show time.” Coach claps his hands for emphasis.
“Just because this is a home game doesn’t mean that we can afford to get comfortable and let our guard down.
This is a nationally televised rivalry match with playoff implications.
If those dufuses from Buffalo think they’re going to win this game, they have another—”
Minerva’s on my brain, even as Coach amps us up for tonight’s game with a more enthusiastic pep talk than usual. I’ve never played better in my life. The team has noticed. My fans have noticed. I’ve never been this in sync with the other players.
“Dufuses?” Knight interrupts. “Really?”
Coach glares at him. “Focus, Hale.”
“I’m with Knight,” Viktor announces. “‘Dufus is kind of wishy-washy.”
“And anti-intellectual,” Owen chimes in.
“For fuck’s sake.” Coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “What would you like me to call them, then?”
“Keep it simple,” Knight suggests. “How about ‘those fuckers?’”
Viktor shakes his head. “Nah. Lacks pizzazz.”
“Buttfuckers?” Owen offers.
I consider digging through my bag in search of one of Minerva’s pregame snacks to nibble while this plays out. I’m not even hungry, I just want the sweetness of something she’s made on my tongue.
“And what insult, pray tell, would have suitable pizzazz, Abbot?” Coach demands.
“I’m not trying to write your speech for you, Coach. I’m just saying that if you’re gonna chirp at Buffalo, maybe avoid the kinds of shit you’d hear on a middle school playground.”
Bowen holds up a hand. “Go easy on him, Viktor. He’s got a kid at home, and you know how they’re like sponges. As soon as they hear a bad word, it’s over.”
“So he’s not going to swear until my niece turns eighteen? Really?” Viktor throws his hands in the air. “That’s bullshit.”
Camden catches my eye and winks. “Personally, I think an inability to communicate without swearing is a sign of intellectual weakness.”
Viktor makes a rude gesture at him. “Get bent, Beck.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Coach looks like he’s about to go ballistic. “Fine, get out there and show those ball-gargling pylons from Buffalo how real men play hockey.”
“Damn.” Knight scratches his chin. “Hate to say it, but I think you overcorrected, Coach.”
“Also not loving the homophobic implications,” Lenyx pipes up. “Not cool, man.”
Coach mutters under his breath. Pretty sure he’s putting a hex on us. Can’t say I blame him. I pop up from the bench. “Let’s get out there and earn our place in the playoffs.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Knight slow claps. “Positive, affirming, and confident. Maybe you should let DuBois write your speeches, Coach.”
“Maybe you should get your ass out on the ice and win the damn game,” Coach growls.
Knight salutes. “On it.”
We check ourselves over one last time to make sure we’re good to go. I mumble my checklist under my breath. “Hydration—check. Macro intake—balanced. Sleep—remedied by one Minerva Marino…”
Viktor slaps my back so hard that my lungs seize up. “Talking to your imaginary girlfriend again?”
I thump him right back. “She’s not imaginary, buddy. She’s magic.”
Camden frowns. “Since when are you and Minerva officially dating? And why didn’t I know about this?”
“I just knew who he meant.” I stumble over my arguments, which are halfhearted at best anyway.
If we make it official with our friend group, should I look for a new assistant? Make a new contract that protects her if things go sideways? I don’t want her to feel used, trapped, or locked into an uncomfortable power dynamic.
I can’t get distracted by thinking about this right now, so I shove the conundrum to the back of my mind for future examination.
* * *
The second my skates hit the ice, I stop thinking.
Everything narrows down to sensation. The scratch of the blade on the slick surface.
The rumble of the crowd behind the glass.
The sting of adrenaline threading through my blood.
My muscles remember what to do before my brain can even catch up, and that’s exactly how I like it.
Out here, there’s no spreadsheet. No noise. Just movement.
The puck drops.
We win the face-off, and Lenyx sends it back to me with a sharp pass that vibrates through my stick.
I skate hard, weaving through traffic, looking for an opening.
The Buffalo defense is tighter than usual, but I feel fast tonight.
Light. Like nothing can touch me. I fake left, juke right, and slip the puck to Cam just in time for him to rip it toward the net.
Ping.
Off the post. But it’s a warning shot.
Buffalo recovers and tries to push back. Their left winger charges our zone with something to prove. He takes a shot that goes wide, but Owen blocks the rebound, clearing it with a thunderous hit that rattles the boards. The crowd roars.
Minerva told me once that the average home team scores 60% more goals in the first period when their fans are loud. I remember that now as I skate harder, fueled by every shout of my name. I want to make her proud.
Camden takes a clean faceoff win and sends it to Lennie, who dances it through center ice and hands it off to me on the rush. I don’t think. I just shoot.
Goal.
The lamp flashes red. The horn blares. My teammates swarm me.
When I get back to the bench, Viktor yells in my ear, “Minerva’s gonna need to start tracking your goal-to-blowjob ratio. It’s getting suspicious.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, grinning too hard to care.
But even as I chirp back, I know Min did this.
She’s taken my game to the next level. I have no illusions about her role in my rising success: without her, I’d probably still be fucking up my shots.
With her help, I’ve been able to bring my best self to this season.
And if she was able to improve me this much in a season, what about next year? And the next?
Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting her go now. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And yeah, her charts and observations play into that, not to mention the pregame blowjobs, but just having her present in my life gives me an added layer of focus and purpose.
We line up again, and Buffalo comes out harder this time.
I get slammed into the boards more than once.
They’re trying to rattle me. Get in my head.
But they don’t know it’s not empty up there—it’s full of her.
Her voice. Her laugh. The way she explained recovery period variability to me like it was the key to the universe.
By the end of the first, we’re up 2-0. I scored one and assisted on the second.
In the locker room, Coach doesn’t yell. He just looks at me like I’m finally becoming the player he knew I could be.
Second period starts, and the ball garglers bring the pain. Hard checks. Trash talk.
We tighten our defense. I play smarter. Sharper. We draw a power play halfway through the second, and I use it to land another shot top shelf. Glove side. The goalie never sees it coming.
3-0.
It’s because Minerva’s here. I scan the crowd and catch her in the second row behind our bench, hands clutched around her data tablet.
She sees me looking and mouths, “Hydrate.”
I grin and take a swig. Christ, look at her. That’s mine, I think before I can stop myself, a raw flash of possessive joy I feel all the way in my ribs.
Third period, Buffalo finally gets on the board with a lucky rebound. Doesn’t matter. We keep pressing. Camden blocks a shot with his thigh and doesn’t even flinch. Knight and Viktor bait the defense into a tripping penalty, and we capitalize fast.
Final score: 5-1.
The crowd explodes. We raise our sticks. The team mobs me at center ice.
As we head to the tunnel, Cam leans in. “You going home with the puck or the girl tonight?”
I clap him on the helmet. “Same answer as always. Both.”
And I mean it. For once, the idea of going home doesn’t feel like a place. It feels like her.