Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
BLAKE
Sitting in half-dress on the locker room bench, I riffle through my gym bag for my post-game beer and stare at it intently. “When I come for you next, it’s going to be on the heels of a win,” I explain to the can in a serious voice.
Saint chortles next to me. “Floquet, you losing your shit already?”
“What? It’s called manifesting, motherfucker,” I retort to her.
“You learn that garbage in therapy or something?” Saint laughs.
“As a matter of fact, I did, asshole.” I grin at her.
“You should think about sorting yourself out in the same manner.” I’ve seen the way she stares at an unknown-to-me girl on her phone.
The pictures are at least a decade old, as seen by the out-of-date clothing, but it seems like the longing pang of Saint’s heart is as fresh a wound as ever.
“Fuck off, Floquet,” is her lame response, as she huffs and gets back to taping her stick. Her brown skin betrays no blush, but I stare for just a second to see if I can detect it by a different metric.
Shrugging, I kiss the logo on my future beer, and tuck it underneath the bench for safekeeping.
At home, I have a little mini-fridge for this ritual of mine, but it’s not like I could come to the Olympics and ask for such a thing, so I enact my traveling game plans for the games.
Fuck it; a warm beer never hurt anybody.
The team is going through their own rituals as I look around the room, but there’s an undercurrent of nervousness, anxiety, and restlessness.
Most of my players have never shown at an Olympics before, and now that they’ve made it this far, the tension sits taut at their feet like a tripwire, ready to fuck them up at a moment’s notice.
Time to Captain the shit out of things.
I bang my stick on the floor in a hurried rhythm, looking into each eye that meets mine, encouraging the girls to get in on the movement. The team picks up their sticks with smirks and grins, and before you know it, the raucous sound has beckoned Coach.
Petras waltzes into the room with a fitted and masculine suit, clipboard at the ready, but when I make eye contact with her and up-nod, she sinks into an open seat and lets me captivate my audience.
I stand without my stick and raise my arms, whooping loudly, then pointedly cut off the sound so that the room quickly follows me into silence.
“All of us have a journey that has led us to this day. We have bled, we have cried, we have sacrificed so that we could sit next to each other on this bench in this uniform. But what no one tells you about professional sports is that at some point, the game becomes a job, a habit, a matter of routine. We look at our lives and wonder, ‘What would I do if it isn’t this? Who am I without a stick in my hand?’ Do you think that medal is won by people who do this because they have nothing else?
No. To stand on that podium means that every single portion of your soul was feral to taste that metal.
So, I want you to do me a favor right now,” I demand of everyone.
“Close your eyes—zero in on the reason for you to win this game. I don’t give a shit how stupid it feels, or if the reason seems minuscule or unworthy of muse.
You don’t have to tell me, you don’t have to tell anyone else, you just have to see it clearly in your head.
You’re going to play for spite, for glory, to earn the post-game beer—” I hear a few knowing chuckles here.
“You’re going to play for your heart, your soul, your reason.
And I know if you do that, we’re going to go home as gold medalists.
Elbows up! How does that sound, assholes? ”
The locker room erupts into cheers and applause, sticks banging together in cheers, whoops, and growls.
“Oh, Captain, my captain!” Saint croons jokingly next to me, nudging me with her arm. “You’ve been in Canada too long.”
I simply shake my head at her antics. She makes me think of my own brat, prepping for her long skate, which is later today—my very own raison d’être, the focal point I pictured when I asked it of my team. I want nothing more than to celebrate joint gold medals with her this evening.
When we make it to the third and final period, the game is tied two-two.
The other piece of my heart—though in a platonic way—Charlie, has scored one of those goals as her team’s dominant forward.
Even though the USA is at high risk of losing to Canada, and considering how much chirping Charlie and I have been doing throughout the entire game thus far, goddamn am I so proud of her.
She is an incredible player, and I almost wish I could sit in the stands and watch her fully, instead of catching glimpses of her while I’m playing the game myself at breakneck speed.
Regarding my own skill, I have, even as a d-man, put a biscuit in the basket—all the better to taunt my best fucking friend with, honestly.
We skate past each other on the way to our respective benches. “You can’t put more on the board? Damn, it’s a shame when the defense is making the offense look so bad. Char, get your life together,” I taunt.
Charlie says nothing in response, just looks back at me dogging her, and shakes her head.
I grin, winking and hoping it’s readable through the mask, before I hop over the board and tug my helmet off to give myself a little air during this scant break.
The tension is thick in the air, folding around our bodies and permeating more strongly than the scent of sweaty women.
I close my eyes and count to ten, visualizing like I told my players to do, and before I know it, I’m back on the ice.
Saint gets the puck on a breakaway, and I shift my play so that I can do everything I can to make sure she stays on it, but right now, the rest of my teammates are letting her down by not rallying up the ice to support.
“Don’t shoot now, don’t shoot now,” I chant, like I can get her to realize her potential icing call with mind-melding.
But instead of shooting, the Canadian player on her heels makes a move to steal the puck. Unfortunately, it looks like Saint was about to pick up even more speed, and instead of the Canadian succeeding, she just puts her stick right into Saint’s skating path.
Wide-eyed and already screaming, I watch Saint go down hard. Time stops so that I can hear her screams ricochet around the rink, and I skate with a vengeance over to her writhing body.
I kneel on the ice, pull her helmet off, and put her head in my lap as soon as I make it over there.
As the EMTs triage her, I pet her braids and brush her tears away from her cheeks.
We say nothing; she just stares up at me while the medics cut her uniform away to reveal a nasty compound fracture.
She’s probably already in too much shock, so I keep her face tilted toward me.
“Ma’am, we need the area clear so that we can put her on a stretcher,” one of the EMTs tells me.
“Of course,” I agree easily, not bothering to give a shit about being misgendered right now. I rub final circles into Saint’s cheeks and skate away, standing next to Coach Petras as they cart her off the ice and away to the hospital.
The ref blows the whistle to signify a return to gameplay, and Coach just pats my shoulder in comfort.
We may have lost a critical player, but this is the nature of fucking hockey. It’s not war, but the consequences can be life-changing or even deadly depending on the gameplay. I can’t think about Saint right now. I have to rally this team so we can win the Olympics—it’s the only option I have.
We lose. We don’t lose badly, but it’s a loss anyway.
Charlie scores the final goal, and I want to craugh—cry/laugh. Instead, I just go through the handshake line, helmet tucked under my left arm, and when I make it to my best friend, I grip her hand tightly with my right hand, putting my left on top for emphasis.
Her expression is cool but smug, and I let her have it—after all, she earned this. No matter what injuries occurred in that game, she brought the heat.
But after the formality of the handshake line, I barrel straight into her before she can escape to her team’s locker room.
“Ugh, fuck, stop!” Charlie cries as I bear hug her, using the height and weight I have to pin her in place and pepper obnoxious kisses all over her face. “You’re the fucking worst friend I’ve ever had in my life!”
“I’m so proud of you!” I crow, ignoring her cries.
“We didn’t just win because Saint went down, you know,” she grumbles.
“I would never say that. You won because you earned it, Char,” I agree, finally letting her loose from my hold.
Charlie shakes her limbs out like my phantom is still holding onto her, and it’s probably true. BFFE, bitches. “I can’t stand you.”
“Yeah, I love you, too. I hope the game helps you pull. Where’s the elusive girl you’re in love with? She watchin’?” I question intrusively as usual; I know that’s her favorite.
Charlie’s face cycles through beaming happiness and annoyance.
I laugh. “Go celebrate and bone down. I have a free skate performance to attend, and I have to make sure I look like a snack.”
“Later, Floquet.” Charlie turns to go.
“Hey,” I grab her attention for one final time.
She only turns to me and raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“You deserve it—the hockey and the girl,” I explain.
Charlie searches my face and then finally nods, a small smile teasing the corner of her lips. “So do you.”
“Are we sure?” I ask in hesitation.
“Yeah, idiot. You take care of everyone around you—even if some of us don’t like it and actively try to make you stop.” Charlie grumbles at this last part. “You don’t think that you’ve more than earned your fair share?”
“You know the rules. Everyone deserves it except me.” I grin to cover up the sadness.
“Stop being a pick-me,” Charlie scowls. “You’re taking home a silver. Why not take home a gold-medalist, too? For the record, I’m not talking about me. I think Olive would be pissed, nevertheless how fucking wrong and weird that would be.”
“Ew, stop. I only kiss you in friendship,” I respond, only to the easy part of Charlie’s assertions.
“Yeah. Maybe we can work on not,” she glares at me and then irons her face out. “Go win the other game, Captain.”
I nod, then allow a smarmy smile to overtake my lips. “Imani won’t say no; who wouldn’t want this hot body on their arm?”
“You’re fucking disgusting. Bye!” Charlie salutes and leaves for real.
Time to watch my heart and soul win the gold. But first, consoling my teammates, and before I have a date with a charmingly bratty woman, I have a rendezvous with a shower beer.