CHAPTER TEN #2
Tanner cupped his cheeks. “My poor, sweet, delusional Norwegian. You are so wrong. We are gonna smoke you guys.”
Leif went hot, but he wasn’t quite sure if it was because he was pissed about the idea of a Team USA win or because Tanner had called him his Norwegian. He should hate it, but the weird squirmy feeling in his gut told him that might not be one-hundred-percent true.
The trash talking led to wrestling, which turned into sex again and by the time Tanner gave him one last kiss before he slipped out of Leif’s room to go back to his own, Leif had forgotten all about his nerves.
But the following day as he prepared for the game, he felt jittery.
Ola Jansson, the other winger on the top line for the Nordic Team, shot him a look as he paced around the locker room. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Leif muttered and ripped the tape off his stick. It wasn’t quite right. He needed to fix that.
Apparently, Leif’s father noticed his nerves too, because he bent down to talk to Leif on the bench after his first shift out. It had gone horribly. Leif had lost the faceoff and Team USA had nearly scored.
“You’ve got this,” Aksel said in his ear. “You’re skilled and prepared. You just need to dial in and you’ll be ready to go.”
Leif released a breath, trying to force the tension from his shoulders, because his father was right.
It helped when he was on the ice again, because he could do something about that nervous energy.
A couple of good shifts settled him down and the first period was high energy, with lots of good scoring opportunities but zero actual goals.
USA wasn’t an overly physical team, and they did their best to shut down all the attempts to stir up some aggression.
Tanner, of course, was in the middle of it.
And, as Leif had expected, he was the target of Tanner’s attention.
To his surprise, however, Leif forgot all about the way Tanner’s skin tasted and how he wrinkled up his nose.
All he could see was red as Tanner chirped him relentlessly. As he stole the puck.
And during the second period, when Tanner shoved his way into the blue paint in front of Gunnar Berglund’s net, Leif dragged him out.
They ended up in a shoving match, which led to them fuming in their respective boxes.
Leif shifted on the bench, trying to get comfortable.
Despite the padding, by the end of this game Leif’s ribs were going to be littered with bruises from the butt end of Tanner’s stick and his pointy fucking elbows.
Pissed, Leif was out of the box the second the door opened. The puck landed on his stick, a nifty little drop pass from one his teammates, and then he was tearing down the ice toward Team USA’s net. Time seemed to slow as he approached Roman Poole.
He’d fired enough shots on him in practice for the Rockets to know his weaknesses.
With a slick little deke, Leif fired high, the puck glancing off Poole’s shoulder pad before tumbling into the net behind him.
“Goddamn it,” Poole muttered, slumping, but the words were drowned out by the sound of the goal horn and the roar of the crowd.
Leif allowed himself a single raised arm to acknowledge the cheers before his teammates swooped in to join him in celebration. He’d never been a fan of players who had a showy celly—like Tanner, because of course he did—but he couldn’t resist a small one at getting the first goal of the game.
And he couldn’t resist a smug smirk in the direction of the Team USA bench on his way back to his own.
Of course, Tanner got even more obnoxious after that, and he and his teammates really poured on the pressure. Tanner seemed to be everywhere at once, darting around and disappearing like smoke the moment someone tried to catch him,
“God you’re fucking annoying,” Leif roared on his next shift out, after Tanner stole the puck off him for the umpteenth time.
“All part of my charm,” Tanner said as he wheeled away, firing the puck to Dustin Fowler.
Of course, because that was always Leif’s luck, Fowler deked around one of the Nordic defensemen and buried the puck in the back of Berglund’s net. The building shook with the roars of the Team USA fans and Tanner and Fowler got smothered by their teammates.
It was on after that. No-holds-barred.
No one had been quite sure how hard guys would go at these games, but this felt almost playoff-level intense as guys battled along the boards and tore up and down the ice.
Team USA got another goal in the second period, and Leif tried his best, but Poole was cool and calm, unruffled by the earlier goal he’d allowed.
Frustration built as they headed into the third period, and Leif’s aim got worse. After the third time his shot hit one of the posts and there was a stoppage in play, Poole tilted his mask back and took a swig of water.
“You know, Rasmussen,” he said, in a casual tone, like they were having dinner with the team back in New York, “I thought your mom was a model, not a pole dancer. Because that kind of talent has got to be genetic.”
Leif snarled and would have gone after him, but one of the refs grabbed his arm.
“Nope. We don’t want any extra-curriculars today,” he called out. “C’mon. Are you gonna play hockey or what?”
Leif scowled and followed him to set up for the faceoff.
Leif’s mood didn’t get better when he watched from the bench as Graham Pennington scored on a breakaway, bringing it to 3–1.
He kicked at the boards in frustration and his father’s hand landed on his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but he kept it there, a heavy reminder that he was watching.
Humiliation washed over Leif, feeling like a child being scolded for his temper tantrum.
As the minutes ticked down and they went out, shift after shift, without a goal, the pit in Leif’s stomach widened. Fuck, he had to do this.
This was what he was here for, to score goals! So why was he failing? Why couldn’t he seem to finish a play? His teammates had set him up for some great chances. So what was going wrong?
Leif tried, repeatedly, but despite several of those opportunities, the score remained 3–1 as the minutes ticked by in the third period.
Hope reignited with just minutes left as Touko Mustaj?rvi—one of their Finnish forwards—scored a wraparound goal that snuck by Poole’s shin pad.
3–2, they could still do this.
Leif skated until his thighs screamed and his lungs burned for oxygen in his next shift out. Another chance … but denied.
He tried again, with what had to be seconds left, the puck clanging off the post, the metallic ring drowned out seconds later with the roar of the crowd celebrating his failure.
The puck landed on his stick again—collected by one of the defenseman—and he shoved the disc toward the goal, desperately trying to get it in.
It didn’t have to be pretty. It didn’t have to be highlight-worthy. He just had to fucking get it in!
But the sound of the game horn popped Leif’s hope like a balloon. He slumped, breathing hard, sick with the feeling of defeat.
He watched Tanner and the other Team USA guys pour onto the ice, shouting their jubilation, the scene growing blurry as tears pricked at Leif’s eyes.
He’d been so close to taking it to overtime.
Every failed attempt played out like a nightmare in front of his eyes when Matty Carlson picked Tanner up and shook him like a ragdoll, his glove and stick falling to the ice as he laughed.
Leif’s stomach ached, jealousy coursing through him. When Tanner skated away from the celly, he blew Leif a kiss.
Anger ignited in Leif, sparking hot and sulfurous like the strike of a match. He shouted at Tanner, skating toward him, intent on making him pay for it, but a strong arm wrapped around his chest, holding him back.
“We lost, Rass,” Ola Jansson shouted. “Let it go.”
Leif snarled and jerked out of his grip, but he didn’t go after Tanner. Instead, he followed his teammates as they lined up to shake hands with the opponents.
Janson was right.
Leif gritted his teeth through the handshake line, gripping sweaty hands and refusing to look anyone in the eye. Was it bad sportsmanship? Yeah. But right now, he didn’t trust himself to look at Tanner and not completely lose it.
But when Tanner approached, Leif didn’t even have to look up to know it was him. The way Tanner’s hand fit in his, the way he carried himself, the weird buzz in Leif’s skin when their palms touched and their fingers slid against one another … Leif knew.
“Good game,” he muttered thickly.
“Good game.” Tanner’s voice was cheerful as always. “You might want to try channeling some of your dad’s talent if you want to score more though.”
Leif did glance up then, hurt and horrified that Tanner would dig the knife in that way. Was there no line for him? Nothing that was considered too far?
“Shit, Leif,” Tanner muttered. “I didn’t—”