Chapter 15 Packy #2
One of Miami’s men yelled, “Zims! Man on!” Zimmer dumped the puck cross-ice and kept skating. I blew past him, flying toward our net. My hands were down, and my stick was nowhere near him.
Then… Crack! The boards rattled, and I glanced back in time to see Zimmer go down. What the hell?
I swung around just as his teammate fired from the circle. The shot went wide and ricocheted off the boards, and Brody raced over to take possession.
The whistle cut through the crowd’s roar. I braked hard, spraying the glass with snow. The ref was pointing at me.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding.
Raising two fingers, he yelled, “Boarding.”
“I didn’t touch him,” I yelled.
Zimmer stayed down, clutching his shoulder and peeking through his fingers.
A linesman grabbed my arm. “In the box now. Or do you want another two minutes?”
I shut my mouth, and as he skated me off, the announcement echoed: “Paquette, two minutes for boarding.”
The crowd’s boos were deafening, and when I reached the box, I tapped my stick on the ice before going in. It wasn’t enough to count as a protest, but it was close. As I dropped onto the bench behind the glass, Zimmer headed toward the visitors’ bench, laughing with his linemates.
Before play resumed, Criswell asked for a video review. The officials took their time, but the announcement I was waiting for eventually came: “Upon review, it is determined that there was no contact between players. Therefore, there is no penalty.”
While the crowd roared its approval, I exited the box and took my place on the bench. Holky, sitting next to me, slapped my back until I coughed.
Our third line was on the ice, and it took Edwards forty seconds to score. Warriors 6, Sunrise 3.
With under three minutes left in the game, our first line hit the ice. Harpy carried the puck through traffic, weaving through two Sunrise D-men and closing fast on their goalie. He tried to feed Mason, but fucking Zimmer intercepted and bolted for our zone.
Dog took off after Zimmer but caught up a second too late. Zimmer fired, and the puck zipped past Gabe’s shoulder and kissed twine.
6–4.
Then the whistle blew again, and this time, the ref pointed at one of Miami’s wingers. Goaltender interference, two minutes.
6–3.
Our line jumped over the boards for the Warriors’ first power play of the game.
When the puck dropped, Miami’s center sent the puck to his other winger, who flew down the boards with it.
I cut him off as he neared our goal, but he sent a pass to one of their D-men in the slot.
Too bad it never arrived. Riley intercepted the puck and rocketed down the ice.
No one caught up to him, and Riley gained speed as he crossed first the red line, and then Miami’s blue line. Their goalie skated out to cut Riley’s angle, but it didn’t matter. With a vicious crack of his stick, Riley sent the puck into the back of the net.
7–3.
With sixty-two seconds left in the game, Miami had no time to regroup.
As soon as the buzzer sounded, the Warriors poured onto the ice like we’d won a championship.
As much as I’d have enjoyed knocking a few Sunrise heads together, Criswell and Harpy had been right.
If we’d kept rising to the bait, the game might have gone the other way.
Revolution Hops was packed. Since it was a popular place for hockey fans, our win had the fans in high gear. The music was loud, bodies were pressed shoulder to shoulder, and the air smelled like beer, sweat, and flirting. Somehow, the hostess found us a table.
The seating was tight, and I was stuffed between Riley and Harpy. I nursed a beer and pretended to listen while they rehashed the game. But my mind wasn’t really in Buffalo; it was in New York.
I pulled out my phone and opened the messaging app. Nico’s text was still waiting.
NICO: Miss you, Pack.
After staring at it longer than I should have, I typed three different replies and deleted them all. Finally, I decided on “See you Saturday,” and started typing.
PACKY: Miss you too.
After I hit send, I gaped at the phone. Why the fuck had I typed that?
Reply bubbles appeared immediately.
NICO: At last. Had to watch the game to make sure you got home okay. You guys were a different team in the third.
PACKY: I’ll tell you about it this weekend. We’re out having a few drinks.
NICO: Have one for me. And so you know, you looked really cute when you were pissed off.
What the hell was I supposed to say? Before I could stop them, my lips curved into a smile.
PACKY: You always flirt by text?
NICO: Only when someone’s worth it.
My cheeks burned, and while I thought about how to respond, I noticed all eyes were trained on me. I needed to end this conversation.
PACKY: I’ll take that as a compliment. Gotta go. See you in five days.
NICO: Until then.
I couldn’t shove my phone into my pocket fast enough.
“What’s with the blushing?” Riley asked.
Harpy leaned in. “Should we invite him to the next game?”
“The fuck are you talking about? That was my brother.”
“You always grin when you text your brother?” Riley asked.
Holky, sitting across the table, lifted his glass. “To Packo. May your next PR event include a kiss cam.”
The guys howled.
“We should get you a Packo locker plaque,” Gabe said. “Something like, ‘Reserved for media darlings.’”
I forced a laugh. “Keep talking, and I’ll pay Criswell to make you all skate suicides the next time I’m gone.”
They wisely let it go.
Five minutes later, Dog called out, “What’re you sitting here for, Packy? You’re single. You should be out there—” He paused and snapped his fingers with a big flourish. “I forgot. You’re saving yourself for the Condor, right?”
The cackles made my stomach churn. I set my empty glass on the table and stood. “Fuck you all very much. I’m going to find someone interesting.”
I stopped at the first stacked blonde I came to. “You alone?”
She smiled. “I was.”
“No more of that. I’m Kirby.”
“Marlie.” She tilted her head. “I know who you are. Can I get you a drink?”
This could turn out to be a good night after all.
“I’ll get one for both of us.” I placed a hand on her back and moved us to the bar.
“Go Packy!”
I recognized Riley’s voice and glanced back at our table. Every damn Warrior raised his glass. Bastards.
The bartender gave us our beers, and Marlie and I headed to a corner another couple had just vacated. Marlie was all smiles and laughs, even more beautiful than I’d first thought. We talked about the usual things, sizing each other up while we flirted.
Absolutely nothing happened. Marlie was exactly my type, but I wasn’t interested. When her hips brushed mine, instead of responding, my dick felt like it shriveled. There was zero spark.
When someone she knew stopped to speak to her, I escaped and dragged my tail back to the table. The guys greeted me with smartass laughs, and I didn’t even bother with a response.
Riley patted my still-empty chair, and I collapsed into it.
“I understand, buddy,” he said. “It happened to me too.”
At home, I kicked off my shoes, flopped across the couch, and stared at the ceiling. After a while, I checked my phone. No new messages. I reread the thread with Nico, hoping it hadn’t been as bad as I remembered. It was worse.
I’d been right before. Sunday morning at the hotel was nothing but proximity and morning wood. We’d both be over it by the time I saw him next Saturday.
“Not him,” I whispered. “Not ever.”
Then I closed my eyes and saw his smile anyway.