Chapter 8 #2
When he stood up, he wobbled. Then he stamped his skate blade into the rubber floor, testing it. He grimaced, but he stayed upright.
He grabbed his mask.
He walked past me. He paused.
He didn't touch me. He couldn't. Not here. Not with Doc watching.
But he leaned in, just for a second.
"Watch me," he whispered.
Then he walked out. Back to the war.
The third period was agony.
I watched from the tunnel this time. I couldn't go back up to the booth. I needed to be close.
Peter was slower. I could see it. He favored his left leg. His lateral movement was sluggish.
Northeastern saw it too. They kept dumping the puck into the right corner, forcing him to pivot on the bad leg.
But he didn't break.
He was a monster. He played with a desperation that was terrifying to watch. He threw his body in front of shots he had no business stopping. He sprawled. He stacked the pads.
Score: 2-2.
One minute left.
Northeastern pulled their goalie for an extra attacker. 6 on 5.
They swarmed the zone. It was a siege.
Shot. Save.
Rebound. Save.
Shot from the point. Deflected.
The puck bounced weirdly off a skate. It was heading for the top corner.
Peter was out of position. He was on his knees.
He lunged. He pushed off the bad leg.
I saw him grimace—a full-body flinch of pain.
But he stretched. He threw his glove hand up in a desperate, impossible arc.
Thwack.
The sound of the puck hitting the leather glove was the loudest thing I had ever heard.
He caught it.
He held it.
The buzzer sounded.
Game over. Tie. (It goes to Shootout in regular season, but for this narrative arc, let’s say Overtime creates a tie or win). Correction: NCAA rules mean Overtime first.
We went to Overtime. Then a Shootout.
Peter stopped all three shooters.
We won.
The stadium exploded. The team poured off the bench, tackling him.
I watched him disappear under the pile of black jerseys. I was crying. I didn't even realize it until I tasted the salt.
The locker room was a party. Music blaring. Guys shouting.
I waited in the hallway, leaning against the wall, exhausted.
Finally, the door opened.
Peter came out.
He was showered, dressed in his suit again, but he was limping heavily. He was using a crutch that Doc must have forced on him.
His hair was wet. His eyes were rimmed with red.
He saw me.
He stopped.
He didn't say anything. He dropped the crutch. It clattered to the floor.
He took two step—wincing—and grabbed me.
He pulled me into the nearest alcove—a utility closet near the exit.
He kicked the door shut.
It was pitch black. It smelled of mops and cleaning chemicals.
"Peter," I gasped.
He didn't talk. He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the lesson. It was pure adrenaline. It was the kiss of a man who had just survived a war.
He lifted me up, pressing me against the shelving unit. My legs wrapped around his waist—his bad leg between mine.
"Careful," I whispered against his mouth. "Your knee."
"Fuck the knee," he growled. "You. I need you."
He devoured me. His hands were everywhere—under my jersey, gripping my waist, my thighs. His skin was hot, burning with the aftershocks of the game.
I clung to him. I needed this too. I needed to feel his heart beating. I needed to know he hadn't cracked.
"You were insane," I breathed, kissing his jaw, his throat. "You were magnificent. You were stupid."
"I saw you," he rasped. "In the tunnel. I saw you watching."
"I’m always watching."
"Good."
He ground his hips against mine. I felt him hard and heavy against me. The friction was unbearable.
"Peter," I moaned.
He stopped. He rested his forehead against mine, panting.
"I can't," he whispered. "I can't stand up much longer."
I laughed. A wet, shaky sound.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. Let me down."
He lowered me slowly. I steadied him as he leaned back against the wall, taking the weight off his leg.
In the dark, I found his hand. I interlaced our fingers.
"You won," I said.
"We won," he corrected.
"Is it worth it?" I asked quietly. "The pain?"
He squeezed my hand.
"Tonight?" he asked. "Yeah. It’s worth it."
The door opened suddenly. Light flooded the closet.
We jumped apart.
It was a man. Older. Wearing a suit with an NHL team logo on the lapel. A Scout.
He looked at Peter, leaning against the mops. He looked at me, flushed and wearing Peter’s jersey.
He looked at Peter’s leg, which was visibly trembling.
The Scout frowned. He pulled out a notebook and wrote something down.
"Volkov," he nodded curtly. "Good game. Shame about the knee."
He turned and walked away.
The silence in the closet was deafening.
Peter stared at the open door. His face went pale.
"He saw," Peter whispered.
"It’s okay," I said, grabbing his arm. "He saw you win."
"He saw a liability," Peter said. His voice was hollow. "He saw a crack."
He pulled away from me. He picked up his crutch.
"I need to go," he said. "I need to call my agent."
He walked out of the closet, limping down the hallway, leaving me alone in the dark with the smell of mops and the lingering taste of his desperation.
The bubble hadn't popped. But it was leaking.