Page 18 of Grief & Glitter

Chapter 8

Gideon

I wasn’t smiling. That would’ve been asking too much from the day. But I was peaceful, and I felt it from the moment the puck dropped. The crowd rolled down around us in a wall of gold, Ryan somewhere behind the bench working with the equipment crew as if he belonged there. We’d shared soup. I had a date with Ryan, an actual date, after I’d asked him and fucked up asking him and somehow fixed it enough that he said yes anyway. I could think about that tomorrow. Tonight there was hockey.

The first ten scoreless minutes flew by. Neither team could get anything going, both of us trading chances up and down the ice. Arnaud made a huge glove save three minutes in and got a roar for it, then Walker rang one off the post less than thirty seconds later at the other end. Bob blocked a shot with his ankle, swore loud enough that I heard it from the far boards, and stayed out another forty seconds because that was Bob. It was fast hockey, physical without being stupid, both teams finishing checks and fighting for every loose puck, and we were playing better than we had all season. Not happy. I wasn’t going that far. But good.

The puck came around the boards, and I got there first, taking it on my forehand before their defenseman could close the gap. I chipped it behind him and chased, won the race into the corner, and sent it around the net for Walker to collect. He tried the wraparound. Their goalie kicked it away. The rebound came loose, and I got my stick to it and shoved it back toward the crease before one of their defensemen tied me up. Walker battled for it. Bob pinched down from the point, and for a few seconds it was all sticks and skates and bodies before the puck squirted free and their winger got there first and cleared it.

I turned and went after him, and everything narrowed down to puck, ice, skates, space. For the first time all day, Ethan wasn’t at the front of my mind. He was still there—he would always be there—but he wasn’t hurting me. I could breathe. I could skate. I could⁠—

Something huge slammed into me. My shoulder hit the boards first, then my hip. My skates went out from under me while the rest of me twisted the wrong way, landing flat on my back with my legs half up the boards, my stick trapped underneath me and no idea where the puck had gone. For one ridiculous second, I couldn’t move. A six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound turtle stuck on his shell in front of six thousand people.

Asshole.

I rolled onto my side and found number twenty-seven skating away. Mason Kessler. Of course it was fucking Kessler. Ten minutes of good hockey, ten minutes of feeling almost normal, and then Kessler happened.

I got one knee under me before Bob flew past.

“Bob!”

Too late. He caught Kessler by the shoulder, spun him around, then shoved him hard enough that Kessler stumbled back, and he shoved him again. Bob dropped his gloves, and the arena exploded.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

I got upright as Bob grabbed a fistful of Kessler’s jersey and threw the first punch. Kessler answered with one of his own, and then they were locked together, helmets knocking, fists flying, the officials circling them, looking for a safe way in. Walker skated over and stopped beside me.

“You alive?”

“Apparently.”

“You looked like a turtle.”

“Fuck off.”

“Little legs in the air and everything.”

“I hate you.”

He patted my shoulder. “Love you too.”

Bob landed one more punch before both men lost their balance and went down together. The linesmen finally moved in to pull them apart while the crowd gave Bob a standing ovation. He got to his feet with his hair sticking out in every direction and pointed at Kessler.

“You don’t fucking touch him.”

The crowd roared again. I stared at him.

“Bob!”

He looked over.

“I’m fine!”

“Good!”

The official grabbed his arm and steered him toward the penalty box. I muttered idiot under my breath, and Walker bumped my shoulder. “Your idiot.”

Yeah. He was.