22. Ryan
22
RYAN
“Oh, ho, what’s this?” Yuri’s wicked laugh hit my ears. “Molls is late ? What have you been doing with your morning, Sieve?”
“Fuck off,” I muttered as I pocketed my phone. My ears burned.
Max crossed his arms. “You’ve never been less than fifteen minutes early, even when you’re sick. And here it is, right at ten, and you’re running in at the bell? Yuri’s right. What have you been up to?”
I arched a brow and opened my mouth, but a grin broke on my face. “Exactly what you wish you were.”
They howled and high-fived me just as Coach walked in. “Sit down, fellas. You know what day it is.”
Morning meeting was every bit as tense as I’d predicted. Every year, gearing up for Atlanta meant grim faces and relentless shots on goal in warmup. Coach Delgato had a suit just for this matchup. Gene wore the same socks he’d worn at our last win. Dustin and a few of the younger guys had started following his lead, so the locker room smelled before this game.
For the past two years, my job on Atlanta days had been to offer last-minute tips and fist-bumps. This year, my shoulders were tight along with the rest of them. Saves and stats flipped through my brain to keep me focused. Lyrical music would distract me, so I walked around with my headphones in and the Lord of the Rings soundtrack playing on loop.
I could not let myself think about lying in bed with her this morning. After that early bullshit with the guys, no one mentioned it again. We all knew today was for focus.
After morning skate and meeting, we convened at the diner for a late breakfast. Gene and Dustin hung back to do a short interview while the rest of us went on. The waitresses pushed tables together and got busy filling coffee and taking orders like they always did. This was the one moment in the day when everyone could relax a bit.
“Coffee?”
I looked up at the blushing server and nodded.
She beamed and poured for me. “Um, I hope you have a good game tonight. I love your fan page, by the way. It’s so cute.”
“Thanks?”
Her blush deepened before the head waitress called for her to stop flirting. With an embarrassed groan, she hurried away. Around me, the guys laughed.
“Look at Molls suddenly becoming the ladies’ man,” Yuri said with a grin. “Give that man a comb and some hair gel, and he’s suddenly double-oh-seven.”
I rolled my eyes and shoved my hair away. It was still a little damp from the post-workout shower, but at least it wasn’t fluffy anymore. “Got tired of getting shit all the time from you divas.”
Ethan clapped my shoulder. “You look good. Much more put together than before. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting laid.”
“Why would you know better about my personal life?” I asked at the same moment Yuri said, “Oh, he is.”
Ethan’s attention bounced between us. “Hold on. Hold on . Who’s the lucky lady? How did I miss this?”
“You should’ve seen him before morning meeting. Total walk of shame,” Max said.
Ethan’s jaw dropped. “ Whoa . The photo from last week? Molls, are you and Mrs.—”
“Don’t call her that.” My voice was soft. Calm. It shut them the hell up.
For about two seconds.
Then Ethan smirked. “What’s her name?”
“Nica.” I rubbed my eyes under my glasses.
“What’s wrong with Molls?” Dustin asked as he slid into a chair beside Gene.
“Situationship,” Ethan whispered dramatically.
“Ohh. The, uh, influencer from the Boston photo? What’s her name?” Dustin asked. At least he had the decency not to use her former handle.
“Nica,” I repeated. “And I told you last week. We were having dinner.”
“In a hotel.” Gene gave me a wicked smirk when I gaped at him. Traitorous captain.
Ethan raised his hand. “To be fair, it is a great restaurant. The point isn’t the dinner. The point is—is she your girl or not, Sieve?”
I didn’t bother with the fuck off that I always gave to that name. “Not officially. But.”
The whole table gave me a knowing hum.
Ethan’s thumb slid across his phone. After a moment, he looked up and grinned. “Well, Stella just confirmed that she’ll be at the game. Audrey’s invited her to the box tonight.”
Yuri snorted. “There’s definitely a joke there about Molls wanting an invitation to the box tonight.”
Even I laughed at that.
Gene raised his coffee cup. The rest hurried to follow. “Here’s to… things going like they should. Us beating Atlanta. Nica and Molls. And, of course, Simsy finally fucking proposing to Jazzlynne.”
We drew more attention than usual with the round of cheers and applause that followed.
Dustin’s face turned maroon. “Dammit, Cap. Why you gotta blow me up?”
Gene laughed. “Figured you could use a little motivation.” To the table, he said, “He wants to ask her tonight if .”
None of us needed the end of that thought. If we won. Bad luck to put an if in front of it on game day, though.
Ethan tapped his hand to his heart. “That’s motivation for all of us. We got you, kid.” He and Dustin bumped fists across the table.
Hours later, we marched in a line out to the ice. “Bad Blood” by Taylor Swift thundered from the speakers as the spotlights swirled around the arena. I glove-bumped Jimmy, my backup goalie, and jumped over the boards to skate with the guys. Once we got our legs under us, Jimmy and I drifted over near the benches to stretch.
“How are you feeling?” he shouted over the fans and the music.
“Ask me that in a few hours.”
He gave me a pat on the shoulder and went to his spot on the bench. I stood up and leaned over the ledge for a mouthful of Gatorade. My helmet was cutting into my forehead, so I waited while Coach Bowman adjusted it for me.
“Hey, goalie.”
I looked to my left. One of the Atlanta players smirked at me. I caught sight of the number on his sleeve—92—and whipped my attention back to Coach. He handed me the helmet, and I snapped it in place.
But 92 shouted again. “Goalie. I’ve got a question for you. I saw the picture of you the other day with that chick. First Paris, then you? Is she a pass-around girl or what? We’re staying in Hartford tonight. Think you could send her my way?”
Under my helmet, my ears caught fire with rage. Coach Delgato snapped at him to shut up and leave me alone, so I did what any self-respecting goalie would. I skated to my net without a backward glance.
If Atlanta was our rival, 92 was our villain. No other member of the whole damn league stirred up as much shit as that one guy did. It wasn’t just with us, of course. He was a legendary goon. His defensive skills were okay, but Atlanta kept him around for one main reason: to piss people off. Start fights, draw penalties, distract players—this dude was a master of chaos. I knew all about him, of course. But I’d assumed he’d put his attention on Ethan after last year’s brawl between them.
Apparently, I had misjudged the situation. Not only had that asshole fucked with me, he’d hit me in the one place I actually felt sensitive. Any other insult would’ve rolled off my back. But as I skated side to side, getting comfortable in my crease, I had to run through stats in my head to let it go.
Don’t let it go. Let it make you mad. And let anger make you fucking unstoppable. For Quinn. For her. For the team.
For me.
The puck dropped, and the game began. I blocked an easy shot or two early in the first period, but mostly things were quiet. After a commercial break, though, Yuri put a hit on an Atlanta wing that sent the guy to the ground. Whistles blew as shit-talking began, but the fans read the room. The arena’s noise increased. Feet stomped. Fans cheered. And it fueled the players.
Speed picked up. My guys battled hard in their offensive zone for a long time without burying one. Suddenly, the puck slid past the line, and I dropped into a crouch. Two Atlanta skaters rushed toward me, but Yuri and Ethan were in stride with them before they entered my zone. The guy with the puck dumped it around the boards and behind my net.
Ninety-two raced in to play it.
My jaw clenched. As he flew toward the puck, stick out, head down, I skated around the back of the net and threw my shoulder at the right moment. Asshole didn’t see it coming. I checked him flat on his back.
Standing over him, I stared down, watching as he blinked in confusion. “What the…”
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to. The stare I pinned on him said enough. His face contorted with anger while a flurry of players and linesmen surrounded us. The crowd kept up a constant ooh until another Atlanta player hauled him to his feet.
“Holy shit, Molls,” Gene shouted. “What was that?”
I shrugged and skated back to my net. “Just playing the puck.”
The linesman pointed at me. “Two-minute minor, Molloy. You know better than that. Shape up.” He skated to center ice and said to the camera, “Connecticut number thirty-four. Two minutes for roughing.”
One of our fourth-line guys went to serve my penalty, and I snapped back to focus. Use the Force. Don’t drop a goal now.
Atlanta was pissed, and they let me know with a string of wicked shots. Two minutes felt eternal as I blocked shot after shot, diving from one side to the other and using my stick to keep each attempt out. But finally, the penalty ended. Dustin raced from the bench and stole the puck out of our end. He flew down the ice, wristed a one-timer, and buried it in the net.
Period one ended with screaming fans and blowing horns.
In the locker room, I sat down while the guys talked.
“Molls. You okay, man?” Gene asked at last.
I looked up. “He was talking shit about my girl.”
The guys gave me a collective wince that said they were ready to tear him apart, too. “Fuck that fucking guy. He so much as looks sideways at Molloy, and we’re gonna light him up. Understood?” Gene said to the group. He got a resounding grunt in affirmation.
Dustin cleared his throat. “Guys. I’m gonna go do it. We’re up. I feel good about this. I… wish me luck.”
Jazzlynne would be on the ice right now. She had been an ice dancer for the team for years. We all cheered him on as he grabbed a velvet box from his locker, nearly forgot his helmet, and then raced out of the room.
No more strategy talk for the moment. We watched the TV in the corner as he skated out, stopping the ice dancers’ routine. Jazzlynne cocked her head. Her hands flew to her mouth as he skated to her down on one knee. The camera zoomed in on her teary eyes. She dropped to her knees, too, nodding like crazy. We all cheered again while they kissed.
“It is about damn time,” Gene chuckled, but then he looked around at us. “We can’t fuck this up for him. Got it?”
“Aye, Cap!”
Period two began fast and wild. No surprise there. Atlanta was out for blood. We didn’t always beat them, although our record had improved over the years since Quinn joined the team. But this matchup was far from a sure outcome. The first half of the period had me sweating buckets as they went on the attack. There were plenty of shots on goal, but the mental game was just as harsh. So many passes. So many dekes, faking shots just to make me flinch. I forgot all about the first period drama. The noisy arena faded away the more I focused until it was just me and the puck in my mind. No matter how many bodies were in front of me, I had one target. And I followed it relentlessly.
Finally, my guys took possession and went on offense. I stood up from my crouch and hydrated while they battled unsuccessfully for a goal. Soon enough, the action flipped again, and I was on. I dropped down into a butterfly and passed the puck to a Connecticut sweater in my periphery—Yuri, it turned out to be. Meanwhile, plenty of Atlanta players hovered around. Yuri fought one-on-one for possession just to the left of my net. He sent the puck to the boards, and it rolled behind the net and out of my sight. I stood up to move right in case Atlanta picked it up. My eyes tracked the puck, but from my left periphery, I saw an Atlanta jersey flying toward me?—
The next thing I knew, my ears were ringing, my helmet was off, and I was flat on my back. A wicked pain shot up my neck, like when you turn your head too fast. My lungs felt like I was under a boulder.
From a few inches to my right, I heard a muffled voice say, “How do you like it, goalie?”
“Mother fucker !” That was Ethan, screaming from at least the blue line. “Get to your goddamn feet, you son of a fucking?—”
Whistles blew. Fans roared. Blades scraped. Pretty soon, I heard the thumps and clatters of gear hitting the ice.
I just lay there, doing my best impression of a snow angel.
Coach Bowman and Doc peered over me. “Molloy? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, Doc. What, uh, what’s happening?”
Doc shined a light in my eyes. I winced. “Got the wind knocked out of you. Gonna have to go check you out. Can you stand?”
The pain had subsided. Breathing wasn’t so hard. I nodded and let them help me sit up, noticing suddenly that the arena had gone silent. Coach and Doc braced me, and I got to my feet. As I skated off between them, applause and cheers started up. I looked to my left to see Ethan with a busted lip. He grinned.
“I gotchu, Molls. Hurry up and get back out here!”
I nodded once and followed Coach to the locker room. As I skated off, Jimmy passed me, headed to the net. “Shake it off, buddy!” he called.