15. Gideon #2
Owens held up his hands. “Don’t think any more about it.
We’ll get another one in the second.” He held up his index finger as though to pause the conversation.
“We’ll get at least another one in the second.
” A crooked grin spread across his face, revealing his missing tooth.
A lot of the guys didn’t wear their fakies during the game.
“I read about that neurolinguistic programming you’re always going on about.
” The s ’s in neurolinguistic coming out as neurolinguishtic .
“I used to think that positive thinking was bullshit, but I think it’s… working.”
It didn’t seem like the words of someone who’d tried to sabotage me. “Keep going with it. It gets kind of addictive.” What are you up to? I wondered.
Owens took a gulp from his water bottle. “I like the visualization stuff. I use it for hockey and… other stuff. My bunny game has been on point.” The sides of his lips turned up. He watched me closely as he took another sip.
There was the immature player I knew and currently… hated? Or did I?
He stretched his arms over his head. “Where’s my ‘grow up and be professional’ lecture, Mr. Serious?”
With his tooth gap, he sounded so ridiculous I couldn’t help but smile. “Why don’t you get a permanent toof?”
He cocked his head, studying me. “That would be bad luck.”
“Right, luck.”
The room got louder as the players started to get ready for the second period. Helmets went back on, skates were tightened, and talk turned to the game.
“I forgot, you’re not superstitious.” Owens snapped the strap of his helmet under his chin. “How was your pre-game routine today?” The glint was back in his eye.
“My pre-game routine is science, not superstition.” But as the words came out of my mouth, I started to question myself. Today, my routine was… different. Could I attribute my early goal to cat fur removal?
I brushed the idea aside, figuratively. If I was going to be a team player, I needed to get the weight off my chest. “Dude, I’m pissed you called Stephens to let him know that I had the time wrong and not me. Why did you do that?”
Owens blinked from behind his plastic eye shield, and even though he was wearing his helmet, I could see his brow furrow.
“What are you talking about? I left a voicemail.” A realization settled into his face, and he nodded.
“That’s why you were so pissed at me this morning.
” He stood and pulled his phone from his cubby.
“You don’t have to—” I tried to stop him.
“See?” He thrust the phone at my face, and sure enough, in the list of outgoing calls was my number. How had I missed it?
“Shit.” I was such an asshole. “I didn’t see it.” My voice was quiet. The team was starting to file out of the dressing room. Owens tucked his phone away. “I’m sorry.” It was almost a whisper.
“Dude.” Owens smacked my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Shit happens. Maybe next time, ask me before the new nickname sticks.” The glint was back.
Without realizing it, my abs had been engaged, my subconscious preparing for a fight. I exhaled, relaxing my core. Maybe Owens was the mature one. “What is it now?”
Owens grabbed his stick. “Grumpster.”
“Original.” I returned to my spot, put on my helmet, and paused with my mouth guard in my hand.
“Well, joke’s on you guys. I like it.” The dense air in the room lifted.
Or maybe it was just me. I pointed to Owens with my stick.
“Second period. The play we worked on this morning. You and me. Goal and assist.” In the morning’s play, it was Owens who would get the goal. “Visualize it. Now.”
The skin beside Owens’ eyes crinkled. “What do you think I am, a rookie? I’ve been seeing the look on Coach’s face when we score all day long.”
The last few players were heading to the ice. Stephens, the captain, had hung back. He always went last. “Ready to slay some Tigers?” He grinned as he held the door for us.
“Ready to take a bite.” I chomped my teeth, popped in my mouth guard, and fist-bumped Owens, then Stephens. Owens rattled the string of shark teeth, and I followed, giving the strand one extra shake. Behind me, the clacking sound told me that Stephens did the same.
The three of us brought up the rear of the Barracuda, and my chest puffed with pride as I burst onto the ice with my teammates.
The camaraderie was palpable, and… I liked it.
A glance at the seats at mid-ice confirmed that Piper hadn’t shown up.
But as I glided past the plexiglass, I realized that something was off.
Goldie wasn’t there either. She always sat low in the stands, as close to the middle as she could.
I shook my head, trying to get the worried thoughts out of it. When they left, I told them that I’d talk to them after the game and not a second before. What if something had happened?
Maybe she’s just in the bathroom? It was intermission, after all. For some reason, the humidity in the fishbowl seemed thicker than usual. I skated to the boards, sipped my water, then sprayed it on my face. Drops landed on the ice as I shook my head. My brain needed to get back into the game.
We didn’t get the chance to do the morning’s play until eight minutes into the second period. Right before the puck dropped, I glanced to Owens. He nodded.
It was time.
Just like the preview that had been running through my mind in my visualizations, the puck dropped, I won the faceoff, and we were off.
I knew that Owens would be in the right position.
Ace buzzed around him like a pesky mosquito, and just as I was about to fake to Stephens and pass to Owens, Ace checked him into the boards.
Fuck.
I leaned my shoulder into the body check as Ace came after me.
Instead of looping around the net from the right side, I skidded to a stop and hit my brother hard.
He fell to the ice, and I could’ve taken the shot, but Owens had recovered from being plowed into the boards by that wily brother of mine and was ready.
After two dangles and a fake, I passed up the ice, the puck sliding past Ace’s stick to land on the tape of Owens’.
The crack echoed through the fishbowl, and unlike me, Owens celebrated when the goal light flickered over the Tigers’ netminder.
Both of his hands were in the air as the foghorn sounded.
Instead of skating away from the play, Gideon the grump did something he’d never done before.
I raised my stick in the air and slammed into Owens.
Stephens was behind me. Celebrating was cocky.
It was also kind of, I hated to admit it, fun.
When we were young players, Ace went overboard in the showboating department and almost got kicked out of the junior league. Once for riding his stick like a horse, waving his hand above his head, another time, throwing his glove high into the air and “shooting” it down with his stick.
By the time I made it back to the bench, the grin on my face was starting to hurt my cheeks. I didn’t want to look at the stands, but I did. My heart sank. My celebration would have been better if there had been one person there to see it—Piper. But the seats were still empty.