Chapter 10 Reid
Chapter ten
Reid
“You have to do it,” Benji says as I dish out the roasted vegetables onto their plates, careful not to give David any sweet potato or Benji any broccoli. I swear these boys are pickier than I ever was.
“The first day I tried it, I broke my face, remember?” I reply, pointing to my nose, which is still covered by a Band-Aid and will be for at least another week.
My nose is still massively swollen too, but at least the pain has started to dissipate and I no longer have panda eyes.
There is still a little bruising in the middle, but it’s way less noticeable now than it was.
“Yeah, but you’ve gotten better since then, right?”
“I guess. We’ve been practicing every day this week.”
“And you said you were getting it today, right?”
“I said that I got it, singular. I made it work once.”
“Once is great. Now tomorrow you just repeat that a few times and you’ll be good to go next time you get a power play. The other team won’t know what hit them.”
“Enough about me, what have you been up to?”
He spills the juice he’s pouring. “Shit, I’ll get the paper towels.”
“What are you hiding?” I ask, pausing mid-serve of the chicken pieces as I eye him.
“Nothing,” he replies, sopping up the spilled juice. He’s always been a shit liar. Ever since he was small, he would practically fall over himself trying to avoid the subject, too afraid he’d slip up and give himself away. Just like he’s doing now.
“Seriously, spill. Please tell me it’s nothing to do with my birthday.”
“Stop, Benji,” David calls from the hallway before barreling through the door, red-faced and panting. “Don’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he replies.
“Now you’d both better. I said I didn’t need anything for my birthday this year.”
“Yeah, but you say that every year,” Benji says.
“And every year you ignore me, so I guess we’re right on track, then. Sit down and eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
***
I get to warm up early, and no surprise, Luka is already here.
So I stand in the shadow of the walkway to watch him for a little while as he moves over the ice.
It’s hard to believe I was ever as smooth as he is out there, but I swear I was.
Or at least, in my memory I was. Now . .
. well, let’s just say I can hold my own, but I don’t look anywhere near as graceful doing it.
He’s not working himself too hard, just skating laps as he skims the blade of his stick back and forth over the glass-like surface.
Every now and again, he’ll throw in a spin, head tilted back, eyes closed, a peacefulness to his expression that will soon be gone.
As much as any of us love hockey, it’s about as far from peaceful as you can get.
Luka skids to a stop at the side, grabbing his water bottle and drinking it down for a few seconds before heading back out.
But before he can pick up where he left off, he pauses and turns my way.
I press my back up against the cold cement wall, hoping he didn’t catch me watching, and then the echoes of more of the guys’ voices reach me.
Shit. How long was I actually watching him?
I lean a little forward to check if Luka’s attention is still up here, but he’s back circling the net at the far end.
“You coming?” White says, nudging me on his way past, and I startle.
“Yeah, umm, I’ll just be a second.”
I pretend to retie my laces as a few of the other guys pass, and then I follow them out.
Warm-ups on game days are the most chill.
Lots of stretching and getting our muscles all loose and ready for the game.
A few early-bird fans are in the crowd watching, their voices carrying across the ice, not clear enough to actually know what they’re saying, but it’s still kind of nice.
Soon the stands will be full, and the noise will shift into a monotonous hum for the most part.
At least that’s what it mostly sounds like to me.
I think I spend just as much mental energy trying to block them all out as I do physical energy when I’m out here anyway.
That’s the job of a captain, to be the example, to ignore the countless people in the stands wishing for you to fail, even if it means also blocking out the ones cheering your name.
Besides, out here it’s not just about one player.
It’s the team that wins games, and today we get another shot at Boston, and I want that win badly.
I’m taking shots on Colt when Boston skates out in a line, moving in a figure eight down the middle before fanning out to start their pre-game program.
Then I spot Luka heading their way. At the same time, Boston’s rookie, Cosmo Parkes, skates over to join him.
I know they played together at Boston U, and really fucking well too.
They had this chemistry out on the ice that some skaters never find with another player.
It was almost like magic. Then they got drafted to different teams, and suddenly all the things they knew about each other that helped them win games they can now use to beat the other.
Cosmo is definitely still attuned to Luka’s moves out on the ice.
He intercepted him on so many plays last time we were up against each other.
“Hart, stop fraternizing with the enemy,” I call, and Cosmo tilts his head past Luka to frown at me before rolling his eyes like a child and returning to his conversation as though I didn’t say anything.
I’m about to break them apart myself when Luka’s laugh rings out like a bell.
He punches Cosmo in the chest, in a playful way, and turns around, shaking his head, with a wide, happy smile on his lips.
What did he say? Was it some joke about me? Probably laughing at how I broke my nose the first day I tried Luka’s trick play. I bet they have a dozen or more plays they could pull off together perfectly.
“You okay, Cap?” White asks, drawing my attention.
“Fine, why?” I ask, trying not to follow Luka with my gaze, but my eyes automatically track him.
“You sure? Cause you kind of look like you want to beat someone up, and we haven’t even started the game yet.”
“Yeah, well, maybe these guys should be worried about how hard we’re coming for them tonight,” I say, and he wraps an arm over my shoulder.
“Fuck yeah, they should. Tonight is our night.”
***
Boston scores early, but Colt isn’t rattled; if anything, his focus intensifies. Boston’s rookie, The Flash, tries to get in another shot, but Colt is quick to catch it.
“Good save, lock in,” I tell Colt as I cross paths with The Flash.
I’m expecting him to be pissed, but instead of being mad about missing, he skates past me and the fucker winks.
A fire rises in my chest. I need that first goal to be the last goal they score today.
I need to wipe that smirk off his smug little face.
“Watch eight-eight,” I yell, and the puck drops. White wins the face-off and shoots it along the boards up to Luka. He passes back to White as we move up the ice. Luka’s gaze locks onto mine.
“Let’s do it,” he yells.
He can’t be serious. We only just started practicing his trick play; it’s too soon.
I shake my head.
“You got this,” he yells. The Flash is gaining on him.
He’s been a step ahead blocking Luka like he’s inside his head, but this .
. . He won’t know what hit him. I nod, and Luka makes himself available for White to pass the puck.
My heart is racing, and that fire that was in my chest has spread warmth all over my body, like my muscles are being electrified by the anticipation of doing something I shouldn’t even be thinking of doing.
But then Luka shoots the puck off to me, and I go for it, skating full speed toward the corner of the net.
The goalie is right up against the post. Their D-man moves to block the gap, but they have no idea I’m not going to be the one shooting.
I start my tight turn around the back of the net, but about halfway around, that fire inside me goes out as my skates slide too far toward the wall, and when I try to push the puck to Luka, it goes wide, right into the stick of The Fucking Flash.
I land on my side on the ice, and when I get to my feet, the buzzer sounds. Boston scores again.
“Motherfucker.”
I get back to the bench, and I’m fucking seething. Why the hell did I agree to even try that shit? Not only did I fuck it up in front of a stadium full of people, but Boston scored off the turnover, and now we’re fucking two goals behind.
“You good, Raines?” Coach Dennings asks.
I grunt, offering little more than a curt nod.
“Are you going to sulk, or are you going to play?” he asks.
“Play, Coach.”
“Good, then flush it and get ready.”
I can feel Luka’s eyes on me. I know I’ve let him down too.
He thought I could pull it off, but maybe you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
I guess I should stick to what I know. It’s gotten us to the finals and won us a couple of cups over the years, so I have to be doing something right.
The coach is spot on. If I’m going to be any good out there, I have to let that shit go, at least for now.
I push away the images in my mind replaying my fuckup, and shove them deep down for future Reid to handle.
Colt saves another goal, and the coach calls the line change as they set up for the face-off. The second I’m out there, I lock in. Stick to my job, and remind the others of theirs. The crowd came to watch hockey, not circus tricks.
White passes up to Luka, but instead of sending it off to another player, he makes a beeline right for their D-Man.
Coach Dennings yells, “Protect it.” But Luka isn’t playing safe; he looks like he’s gunning to play a game of chicken with a guy twice his size, which won’t end well for him.
“Protect it.” I repeat the coach’s words, and Luka glances back for a second, his gaze locking onto mine for barely a breath, but even in that time, I see it. The glint in his eye. The confident smirk on his lips. He’s about to do something reckless, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.
Just when it looks like Luka’s about to be creamed by Boston’s best defender, he chips the puck, spins like a fucking ballerina around the defender, scoops the puck back up, and shoots it right into the net.
The crowd goes insane. The rumble of cheers vibrates around us like a swarming hive.
I should be happy—Luka’s goal brought us one shot closer to beating these guys—but those thoughts I pushed way down are starting to creep back up, and their deafening cheers make one thing abundantly clear. They want the fucking circus tricks too.