Big Puck Energy by Elise Faber

Author:Elise Faber [Faber, Elise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781637490730
Publisher: Elise Faber

Twenty-One

Axel

“Go, go,” Joel called. “Take it.”

He let the puck slide through his feet, leaving me to pick it up.

Unfortunately for him—or me, really—he hadn’t considered what was happening behind him.

Unfortunately for me, he was a big fucker and I didn’t see the opposing player barreling toward me until I was picking myself up off the ice, moving my tongue around the inside of my mouthguard-protected teeth, half expecting to find several out of place or floating around out of their sockets.

They were all in place.

And I was moving again, chasing down the fucker who’d laid me out, who was streaking toward our net.

I hauled ass.

And…didn’t catch up in time to disrupt his shot.

Goal.

Cool.

Sighing as the whistles blew and the red light turned on, I rolled my shoulders and tried not to glance up at the scoreboard as I skated back to the bench.

Because it would reveal…an eight-goal deficit.

Insurmountable.

Shitty as fuck.

But that was the breaks of professional hockey.

“Sorry, man,” Joel muttered, squirting some water in his mouth and promptly spitting it on the skate mat in front of him. Pointless habit. Not hydrating and probably gross, but fuck if I didn’t do that same damned thing when he handed me the bottle.

Needed to wet my mouth.

Didn’t want a lot of water sloshing around in my stomach when I tried to skate.

Though tonight that didn’t matter.

Skating hard, working hard, trying hard, not one was going to make a bit of difference. This game was in the books. The best we could do was try to pull some decent plays together, something we could focus on going into the next game.

Joel snagged the bottle back, dropped it into the holder on the inset shelf in front of us. “How bad is it going to be?”

“Coach?” I asked.

Another line jumped on the ice, and we scooted down as we spoke, eyes on the ice, moving into position to get ready to take our next turn at getting beat the fuck down.

“Yeah,” he muttered once we ran out of scooting room.

I slanted a glimpse at our head coach, noted the apoplectic expression on his face. “Bad,” I muttered back.

“Shit.”

“Same shit. Different day.”

A half-grin. “Yeah,” Joel said, sliding down again.

I followed suit, along with the rest of the guys on the bench, and said, “So, we’re gonna do what we always do.”

“There isn’t any pussy on the ice.”

Fucker. Albeit a funny one.

“No, asshole.” But my lips were twitching, and I tried to channel Brit when I said, “We’re gonna go out there and do one good thing before we get reamed in the locker room.”

“Same shit,” Joel said lightly, lifting his fist.

I bumped. “Different day.”

And, nearly as one—since he was a big fucker and took up more than his fair share of the boards—we jumped onto the ice.

And…eventually, we managed to do one good thing.

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