Chapter 21
Thayne
There are shit games and then there are shit games.
Like this.
We’re talkin’ last cup of coffee in the house is burnt bad.
We’re talkin’ locked out of every music app on your phone bad.
We’re talkin’ dropped down to the ECHL for the remainder of my contract bad.
“Fuckin’ come on, Hall,” I tap the post to my right, “get your shit together, Oates.” My stick clicks against the one to my left. “Give me more “Kiss on My List’.” Folding my frame forward into a defensive stance is executed next. “’Less Out of Touch’.”
The zeb drops the biscuit in our defensive zone, and thankfully – fucking thankfully – Peck wins the faceoff against the Camelot Cheetahs.
Unfortunately, that’s where my gratitude ends.
One of their larger defensemen invades the space around the crease not only blocking my ability to successfully track the puck but forcing the Goonie Tunes to invade the area as well in hopes of providing the coverage needed.
And it is needed.
I’ve already let two in.
Fucking. Two.
I can’t afford a third.
Not today.
Especially not today.
This is the last game Coach will have seen me play before he meets me as her boyfriend, meanin’ I need this win.
The last thing I want is him thinkin’ about what an embarrassment I am on his team and lettin’ that transfer into what an embarrassment I must be as a boyfriend.
Spotting the tiny black dot coming my way, has me dropping to my knees and sliding in the same direction it seems to be soaring; however, its trajectory is abruptly shifted by someone else’s stick.
And then someone else’s.
And then someone else’s again.
Each pass steers my padded frame between the posts, vision locked onto the tiny object, stare continuously swimming past a sea of thighs and ass and sticks in order to anticipate where to get my blocker or glove or slice my stick.
My teams steady inability to get it past the blue line repeatedly twists my nerves.
Causes me to clamp down on my mouthguard.
Weave and dodge.
Dodge and duck.
Insults are barked in between shoves, though fading everything out to stay focused on the small object barreling towards me is easily done.
It’s second nature.
Like finding the baseline in a Stevie Wonder song.
And much like successfully finding that rhythm, I snatch the puck out of the air, preventing it from bouncing off of Hall into the net.
Eruptions of cheers echo throughout the stadium while I simply exhale.
Shake my bucket bearing head to regather my bearings.
Bounce the rubber around to prove to myself that it is indeed where it belongs.
Some muddled swearing in a different language from the d-man that had been blocking my view is attached to him skating off for a line change, an action that precedes one of the linesmen coming over to collect the coveted item out of my catcher.
“Smooth moves, Groffee,” Goonie Tune 1 insists with a small tap to my pads.
“Silky shit, Tendy,” echoes Goonie Tune 2, mirroring the action of his brother.
“Such a bloody beauty,” Snowman sings during his touch skate by.
“Keep it up,” Cap insists at the same time his stick encouragingly swats the same space.
“You’ve got this,” Peck follows suit with his praises matching those of our teammates.
Everyone loves a goalie when they stop the puck.
Just like everyone hates us when we don’t.
Praise and condemnation are a constant duo for me here on the ice.
Not necessarily my favorite tunes but undoubtedly the voices I recognize the most.
“Way to hit the right notes, Hall,” I murmur and tap to the goal post . “You better keep those ‘Private Eyes’ open, Oates.” A second hit to the other is made. “We’ve got more work to do.”
Lowering myself back into position is followed by another faceoff as well as another faceoff win from Peck.
Bud rarely loses them.
It’s his gift.
Like tending is mine.
One of Camelot’s players grabs possession of the puck and immediately attempts to send it soaring only to have Goonie Tune 2 dive directly in its path, breaking its momentum, allowing me an easy opportunity to cover the object at the top of the crease.
The whistle blowing is easily drowned out courtesy of the claps thundering around the stadium.
I love that sound.
It’s sweeter than hearing a needle drop on a vinyl.
Sweeter than that first sip of a fresh brew.
Hell, the only thing sweeter is hearing my Slayer say my nickname.
And fuck me, have I missed that sound.
Post surrendering over the prize once more, I’m delivered another round of pad taps while I steal a small glimpse of the clock above, noting the few seconds we have left in the period.
Ten seconds.
I just need to get through these next ten seconds, and I can breathe.
We can fucking breathe.
“Gimme ten, Hall,” my voice is low and shaky. “Need jus’ ten, Oates.”
Having the puck dropped again in our zone requires me to stay on alert; however, this time, the opposing team decides to get closer.
Pass tape to tape.
Evade Goonie Tune 1.
2.
Slip between Cap’s legs.
Keep the biscuit crossing my path left and right and left and right, forcing my face to wildly whip back and forth in desperation to stop it from slipping past.
Sticks chop and cut and clap and slap so steadily that not losing the black dot in the sea of rapidly swinging twigs is damn near unfathomable.
In spite of the swears and insults the other team is barking at me – and the boys defending me – I keep my body in a butterfly stance, eyes searching, refusing to let the slippery little intruder slide inside.
Breathing is impossible.
Thinking is improbable.
All I have is instinct.
The vibe in the air.
Notes that only I can hear each time the sticks drop the beat in the rink.
And it’s being in tune with that tuneskie that leads to me hearing the faint swish of the puck skating across the ice, melody unstopped, meaning there’s nothing in its way.
At that moment, I swiftly kick my left leg out to collide with the post, thin blade just barely managing to pin the rubber enemy in its place.
The whistle, the buzzer, and the crowd eruption all happen simultaneously yet before my lungs can be granted the gift of air, I’m aggressively clipped in the shoulder by one of the Cheetahs during his skate off.
Boos of outrage damn near instantaneously become bellows of vengeance courtesy of Cap doing what a captain should always do.
Protect his team.
One of the biggest unspoken rules in the game is you never go after the other team’s goalie.
That’s ringing a bell you can’t fucking unring.
We’re talkin’ the dog whistle of fuck ups.
We’re talkin’ give you a triple shot of espresso when you asked for decaf level “oh shit”.
Never fuck with the goalie.
Especially if you wanna keep your gibs.
To no surprise, the zebs who should be collecting the puck from me, checking on my temperament, inspecting that I actually did stop it against Oates – and I definitely did – they’re forced to throw themselves into the belly of the scrap that reminds me of barfights back home – prompted by a little too much yager – at the very bar where I met Gillybean.
While most of the blood splattered on the ice is clearly from the player being escorted off by a panicked med member and a linesman, Cap lets his join the mess by spitting out a mouthful prior to lifting his hands in a blatant command that the crowd roars ra on top of ra until we have all cleared the area.
Regardless of the tied score and pending penalty we’re facing, the locker room is buzzing.
Swarming with revitalized determination.
Cap throwing fists did what it always does.
Reset the track.
Adjusted the tone.
Got us all back on the same verse.
Well.
Almost all of us.
Just as I finish running my fingers through my now bucket free damp hair, I solemnly state, “Sorry for fuckin’ it up out there, boys.”
Eyes from all around the room cut over to me, but it’s Cap that grumbles, “It’s not you, Groffee.” Wahl tosses him a towel to use. “You’re getting speed bagged.”
“Dummied,” the twins echo in tandem.
“We,” he whirls a pointed finger around the room, “need to step it the fuck up.” His head swivels around the space before adding, “Seychas!”
Grunts are given in agreement and comprehension alike.
“You already did that, Cap,” I mirthfully remind in between removing my upper padding to give my frame more air. “Pretty sure you broke his nose.”
The grumpy, half Russian smugly shrugs. “On vso yeshcho dyshit.”
“Yeah, he can still breathe,” Snowman loudly laughs, “through his mouth.”
“I think I saw him choking on his own tooth,” Peck cringes prior to popping an orange slice down the hatch.
“Eh,” Cap dries his face, “he’ll be fine.”
“Will you?” Snowman unexpectedly questions in my direction, pulling my attention away from what I’m pretty sure is my phone vibrating behind me. “You have been looking very ill-kilter since warmies.”
When I saw my girlfriend for the first time and couldn’t even acknowledge it?
Go fuckin’ figure.
“Off-kilter,” Wahl tries to correct.
“Doctenns say ill-kilter,” Cap casually informs.
“Why?” ponders Potato.
“Because we bloody love to complicate things,” chuckles Frosky before redirecting his stare to me. “And you need to uncomplicate things, aye?” His eyebrow waggle has me giving the back of my neck a guilty scratch. “Find your Slayer. Take a beat.”
My mouth twitches to reject the idea, to remind them that her brother – our head coach – still doesn’t know.
That he won’t know until Sunday dinner, which we need to bring dessert to.
I’m honestly thinking of calling up Grams to get the recipe for her super-secret triple berry cobbler.
I need to pull out all the stops for it.
We’re talkin’ tryin’ to win The Cup in game seven level of focus.
But for now?
For now, I need to get my head back here.
Unfucking what they say isn’t my fault when we all know it is.
I’m the one not keeping ginos off the board.
I’m the one failing my job.
Them.
“Go,” grunts Cap, towel being draped over his shoulder. “We’ll cover.”