Chapter 5 #2
Callahan crouched low at center ice, stick tense against the dot. August hung a stride back, ready to read the bounce no matter which way it went. The puck snapped down, and Callahan’s strength won the draw, cleanly slapping the puck right to August’s waiting stick.
He absorbed it with a soft touch and lifted his head, ready to make the first move. Niko was already cutting past the blueline, knocking shoulders with a shouting Blanchard, who was trying to block him.
“Oh, Neeky! You got your game face on!”
“Get fucked, Bash!”
August slid a pass to the captain, then dropped a half-step behind, skating backward to cover the middle. He tracked Blanchard and angled toward him, keeping his stick extended, reading shoulders, hips, and weight.
If the play broke down, it was his job to stop the rush before it started. But when Niko slipped past a sputtering Blanchard, Callahan smacked the puck at him, and suddenly August was trailing the rush, ready to jump if it kicked loose.
His job was always a balancing act. Defence first, but never be passive. August’s heart thudded as Niko deked wide, testing the last defender in a series of flashy moves he only could have learned from Fraser. Then a gap cleared, barely big enough for a puck, and Niko took the shot.
The goalie lunged forward to cut Niko’s shot; the rebound ricocheted off a pad, forcing chaos into the crease. Callahan was there, muscling for position, and the rebound slipped straight into August’s reach.
He snatched the puck, took aim in less than a second, and then shot it at the net.
It was too high.
Metal rang when the puck smacked off the pipe, and then Blanchard was there to catch it and redirect the play.
August clenched his jaw, skating backward at a pace that would make most stumble as Blanchard raced for him.
Blanchard was fucking fast, and he was no lightweight, but August met him head-on and slowed his momentum enough that he was forced to retreat into his zone, giving the Bigfoots the space they needed to make a shift change.
It had been a good shift. It was August’s best one in the regular season.
He went through the gate and sat on the bench, grabbing his water bottle while his eyes stayed locked onto the game. A tap on his shoulder drew his attention away, and August glanced up, meeting the angry face of his coach.
“Just like that, Snow. Every shift like that.”
August agreed. He didn’t know how something as small as talking to Niko could switch up his mindset this much, but he wanted to ride the high all the way to the end.
When he hit the ice for his next shift, he made good on his promise to get the puck to Niko, who scored their first goal of the game.
August was all grins as he headed back to the bench for the two-minute break with a point added to his scoreboard. He was so pleased that it felt like he had been the one to put the puck in the net.
He pushed open the gate and stepped off the ice, grabbing his water bottle as teammates clapped his shoulder or tapped his back with their sticks. Scanning for the coach, August froze mid-step.
A familiar brunette sat just behind the bench, cheeks flushed, pretending not to look at him.
August had had his share of fans who had been too friendly with him by coming to every game and trying to get his attention anytime they were in a twenty-foot radius of each other, but this guy was different.
He wasn’t waving at him or begging for an autograph, but silently popping up in every fucking place August was at was almost creepier.
This weirdo had followed him to an away game, which meant he was serious. August would have to put a stop to it before things escalated.
And although he wasn’t one to turn his anger on his fans, August couldn’t stop himself from glaring at his stalker.
He thought that would strike some chord of fear in the man, but he nearly dropped his water bottle when the stalker suddenly met his gaze and glared right back at him.
What the fuck?
That glare followed him to the bench. It followed him after the break and into intermission.
It followed him all the way to the end of the game when he boarded the plane on the flight home.
It even followed him back to his house, where he had to stop and go a few rounds with his punching bag because fuck, he was angry.
They had lost the game against Calgary because he couldn’t get his shit together, and now any amount of good faith he had built with his team had dissipated.
Even Blanchard, who wasn’t nice to anyone, kept shooting him sympathetic glances after the last buzzer sounded.
Picturing Blanchard’s face on his punching bag helped, but the person he really wanted to fight was his stalker. It didn’t matter if he looked too delicate to handle a strong breeze, let alone a punch. August wanted to catch the slippery jackass and demand to know what his problem was.
But he was a star hockey player—sometimes—so he had to be professional even while being harassed.
And thus, two months of ‘Let’s-Stalk-August’ hell began.
He was in such an awful mood that he continued to underperform, and August’s frustration and anger issues once again drove a wedge between him and Niko. The rest of the team grew more distant, and even Callahan, who had always been the first to reach out to him, had backed off.
It was hard to focus on his job when he continuously spotted the brunette guy behind his bench or in the halls, like security didn’t care there was a fan wandering around the restricted areas.
And he was always glaring at August like he wanted to kill him, which made no sense because why would he be following him unless he was totally obsessed with him?
Didn’t murderers kill the people they were obsessed with?
It was making him…paranoid.
August didn’t do paranoid.
He sighed loud enough to be heard over the screams of the home crowd as he returned to the bench for his shift change. Like every time before that, August glared at the brunette who was acting like he was ignoring him, even though they both knew better.
But their routine had changed tonight because his stalker had the balls to flip him the middle finger, still avoiding his gaze.
Mother fucker.
“Gusty, you good?” Mark or…Collin asked, and his fellow defenceman turned to look at the people sitting behind them.
“I’m good,” August snapped. “Fucking peachy.”
Mark or Collin shook his head and returned to his wipe-down and water intake, leaving August to his own misery.
He eyed the green tape left within reach, but couldn’t be bothered to use it. Tape wasn’t going to make him stop playing like shit. Tape wasn’t going to get him out of this fucked up mindset that he couldn’t escape from.
At this point, Christmas break couldn’t come fast enough.