Chapter 43
~Deacon~
Daley looks fucking fantastic in a Wolves jersey.
I’m a little jealous that it’s River’s number she’s wearing rather than mine, but only a little.
Mostly, I’m just excited she’s here and excited to play my best for her.
The arena might be packed, but she’s the only one I see when I shoot one more look up into the crowd before taking my place at centre ice for the opening face-off.
With a deep breath, my focus narrows to the ice, the goal ahead of me, the players in Wolves purple behind me and the ones in green I need to get through to get to the net. As soon as the puck drops, nothing else exists.
The Oregon centre drives his shoulder into me, trying to shove me out of the way and take control of the puck, but my stick finds it before he gets a chance. With a flick of my wrist, it flies backwards, straight onto Erik’s stick, and we’re off.
I pivot away from the other guy, heading towards our opponent’s blue line with my ears trained on the sounds around me.
The scrape of steel blades against the ice tells me which way the action is headed without me needing to look.
Shouts and calls from my teammates, a banging of a stick on the ice, all auditory clues that build the picture while my eyes stay ahead, scanning the path that’ll set up a play.
The blue lines mark the zones on the ice. Beyond their blue line, we’re on the offense. Behind ours, it’s all about defence and getting the puck back. Between the two blue lines is where the set-up happens, where possession can flip on a dime, the momentum shifting in the blink of an eye.
It’s a lot like life, honestly. Sometimes, you’re pushing forward; other times, you’re just trying to hold your ground. And in that middle area, between the lines, things can go either way. How you handle it determines whether you move ahead or get stuck fighting to just survive.
Holding the puck, Erik pushes past me, and as soon as he crosses the line, I bolt forward, carving out a spot for myself in front of the net.
An Oregon player is on my back, but Erik passes the puck anyway, trusting that I can handle it.
I fake left and go right, but there’s another player already there, so I spin again and take it behind the net.
Faces of fans blur in my peripheral vision, their shouts nothing but white noise.
A defender comes at me, so I get rid of the puck, passing it to Vince out front of the net. The defender has plenty of time to turn away from me, but he doesn’t. He barrels into me, crunching me into the boards at my back.
Only when he skates away do I see the ‘Miller’ on his back and realize it was Brady who checked me. Gritting my teeth, I rejoin the fray.
“That was bullshit,” Jorn spits out when we hit the bench thirty seconds later. “He hit you way after the play. Refs should have called it.”
“Well, they didn’t, and you know what Brice said.”
During our pre-game pep talk, our coach let everyone know Brady was here. He only found out that morning too, and he told us all that he didn’t want to see anyone behaving aggressively, looking straight at me when he said it.
Maybe that warning should have gone to Brady instead.
Throughout the first period, every time I get on the ice, Brady’s in my face, just like he promised to be.
The crowd boos when he checks me again, hard, against the boards near the Oregon net.
The butt of his stick digs into my ribs in a way that I can guarantee isn’t accidental, but that he manages to hide behind his glove.
I’ve had people shadow me before, and while it can be annoying, it never felt quite so personal before. Like he’s the one with a grudge to settle. As if being traded away was somehow worse than him fucking my wife behind my back.
When he has another late hit on me just before the end of the period and again, the refs don’t call it, I’ve had enough. My body reacts out of instinct, shoving him away from me.
“Go ahead,” he taunts over his shoulder. “I dare you to hit me, you fucking coward.”
My fists clench, desperate to do exactly that, but I don’t want the penalty that would come with it. “You didn’t want to get traded? Then try being a fucking team player next time.”
I shove past him, heading back towards my team’s end of the ice, but just when I make it into the neutral zone, River snatches the puck from the Oregon player he was defending against and sends it sailing over the line, straight at me.
In a split second, I take stock of the situation.
Brady’s still behind me, the only other player left at this end of the ice.
It’ll be one-on-one when the puck reaches me, and I’ve trained with the guy long enough to know that he’ll skate into me, reaching for the puck with his stick in his left hand, trying to knock it off my stick.
The whole play materializes in my head before the puck even hits the tape on my stick.
Making a sharp turn, I reverse my momentum and head back over the line just after the puck.
The crowd roars as Brady charges at me from the side, just as I expected.
So instead of trying to muscle him out or outrun him, I pull back instead.
Flicking the puck back between my skates, I spin around once more, and he overshoots me, stumbling past while I line up the angle and take a hard slapshot.
The puck sails over the goalie’s stick shoulder and the light over the net flashes red.
Goal, motherfucker.
“Fuck yeah!” Erik shouts as he catches up with me, and I grin back at him as the rest of the guys on the ice join us to celebrate. First goal of the season, and I got to deke Brady out to do it? Doesn’t get any better than that.
Well, one thing makes it better, and that’s River’s exuberant smile when he comes up to bump my fist.
“First NHL assist,” I congratulate him. “Not bad for your first game.”
His eyes immediately fly to the seats that Daley and his friends occupy, and I follow his gaze, my grin only widening at the sight of the three of them wrapped in a hug, jumping up and down.
We make it back to the bench and Brice leans over. “There’s only 40 seconds left in the period. You guys wanna stay out there?”
Hell, yes. My adrenaline’s so high right now, I feel like I could play forty minutes rather than seconds.
Oregon keeps the same players out too, and their centre wins the face-off this time.
He flips it back to their right-wing, and I charge forward, looking for another turnover.
He gets rid of it before I reach him, so I turn sharply, ready to head the other way, only to collide with a solid body coming full-force at me.
It knocks me right off my feet, sending me sprawling into the boards a few feet away, and the other player follows, something hard smashing into my face as my back hits the boards.
A sharp stab of pain steals my breath.
Or maybe it’s the fact that the other player is still pressed against me.
In either case, I can’t breathe.
It’s probably only a second or two, but it feels a hell of a lot longer, and when he finally pushes back, my mouth gapes, gasping for air.
I get some air, but I also get something liquid and metallic pooling on my tongue.
Fuck.
Blood fills my mouth, and as I lean forward, it drips onto the clear ice beneath me, immediately spreading into the frozen crystals.
A whistle blows. People shout. Skates appear next to me and someone’s hand is on my arm, but I stay leaned forward, letting the blood flow out so I can suck air in.
“Deke.” The team doctor’s voice finally breaks through my concentration. “Let me see.”
I raise my head, feeling the blood flow back into my mouth. “Shit,” Erik mutters, which doesn’t make me feel any better.
“What? Do I look as bad as you now?” I shoot back. That earns me a few smiles from the guys, but they feel like pity smiles.
The doctor calls for a cold compress, pressing it against my face as he helps me off the ice. The crowd gives a muted, supportive cheer, and I try to stop and look for Daley, wanting to reassure her that I’m okay, but the doctor pushes me forward.
The buzzer sounds just a few seconds later to end the period, while I take a seat in the medical room to see exactly how bad the damage is.