Page 13 of Never Pucking Ending

“What is your favorite candy, Tay?” he asks, one of his dimples popping out as his smile spreads. I’ve heard a few fans screaming about that dimple the same way they do about my scar. I could have gone a lifetime without knowing that there are fan pages dedicated to each, but Belle always likes to read me some of the posts when I’m decompressing in the living room with her. “Maybe I can buy you some.”

I hook an arm around Dawson’s neck and tug him toward the entrance. “Let’s go, Casanova. We’ve got a game.”

“Later, Tay,” he calls out, laughing when my grip on him tightens. I don’t let him go until we’re through the doors. “A little flirting never hurt anyone, Cap. You should try it sometime.”

I shoot him a look. “Taylor is young and new. Her position here isn’t permanent, but it could be. Better not to threaten that.”

He frowns. “How would I do that? We’re two consenting adults. If something happens, it’s not the end of the world.”

I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole. “I take it you and Head are up to date on the one-three-one forechecking tactic. Hoffman said he showed you some of Pittsburgh’s game tapes from last season. They like to play the neutral zone. If they think we know that pattern, they’ll switch up.”

He nods, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Coach already mentioned that he wants to use me to pressure them to pass, and Head knows he needs to keep an eye out on the passing lane to block. We’ve got it, Cap. We’ve done it in practice plenty of times.”

It’s one thing to go against your own during drills. But I know some of the players on my old team well. They’re fast and they’re ruthless. It’d be a blow to break our winning streak against Pittsburgh tonight, even if part of me would find them a worthy opponent to lose to.

He pats my back and starts walking away. “Quit stressing. Eat a Hershey kiss or something.”

The amusement in his tone has half my lips curling up, and I can’t help but shake my head as I follow him to the locker room to get ready.

The rituals of game day never change. We’re all plenty superstitious about our routine so we don’t throw anything out of balance. We get interviewed, take some pictures, and then come back to the locker room to change. Coach will say a few words, maybe make a speech to amp us up, and then we head out to face the other team when our walk out song starts.

There isn’t one day when I don’t get an adrenaline rush when I hear the crowd get louder and louder as we skate onto the ice and our faces are blown up on the jumbotron. But it’s nothing in comparison to when the friends and family suite is shown and the people we care about are on display, waving and cheering and smiling as we get into formation.

My eyes lock on Belle’s as she and her mother point at each other’s Clarkson jerseys before the camera pans over to my dad. He lifts his beer, making the men in the crowd get louder and mimic him with their own drinks.

The ref skates out with the puck and goes over his usual spiel. Everything is mechanical at this point. In one ear, out the other. I’m honed in on the plays. On the fans. On the cool air hitting my face and the burn of my muscles as I crouch down into position with my stick gripped tightly in my palms.

I hear the whistle and drown out the announcers as soon as the puck hits the ice.

Everything is a blur from there. A blur of every tactic we’d gone over during practice. Moskins gets put in the penalty box the first period for shoving one of the right wingers on Pittsburgh’s team. I nearly get put there during the end of the second period for defending one of our rookies against an aggressive forward who tried tripping him during a backcheck.

And then the third period comes down to its last two minutes at a 2-2 score with the Penguins at an advantage.

Nothing any of my teammates can say can prepare me for the remaining twenty seconds on the clock. Or the way the crowd screams for us to make the goal when they see Alexander O’Conner, the Penguin’s left winger, break past the block we set in place.

Nineteen.

Eighteen.

Seventeen.

Sixteen.

Each passing second is drowned out by the drumming heartbeat in my ears. I can feel it pounding as sweat drips down my face.

Fifteen.

Fourteen.

Thirteen.

Twelve.

The puck gets passed from one member of our team to the next to the next. I rush to the opening for Moskins to pass, when I’m slammed out of the way last minute by O’Conner who steals it and rushes to our goal.

Eleven.

Ten.