8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Luke

It doesn’t exactly surprise me that the Tornados are playing an extremely physical game tonight. It’s their usual modus operandi, after all. They always come out blazing, trying to shut down their opponent fast and hard. So far, it has taken a lot for some of the guys to stay level-headed and not let it get to them. We discussed it continuously pre-game, watching endless hours of film, and scrutinizing the Tulsa team’s play in detail. Coach warned us again and again not to succumb to the mind games the Tornados were bound to play on us. But that’s easier said than done. When you find yourself hitting the ice due to missed calls for tripping and missing plays because of missed holding calls, even the guys who don’t usually find themselves in trouble start getting frustrated. It seems the refs have it out for our team tonight, even making Coach yell more than usual, his face blotchy and dark purple by the end of the first period.

I, too, feel the imminent defeat inching in, with the Tornadoes being closer to 2-0 than we are at making it a tie. If it wasn’t for Mitchell and his one-man-wall-of-China in the goal, we would be several goals behind already, that’s for sure. It wasn’t really a surprise to anyone that Cody started tonight after a morning skate, where it was clear to everyone he hadn’t come to Colorado to sit on the bench. Even Buckhammer seems resigned to the fact that he’s back at being second goalie.

The brutality continues throughout the game with numerous face offs, the air heavy with intensity. Riley has already found himself in the penalty box for fighting in the first period after the refs missed the second time I was tripped by the same Tornado center and almost face planted on the ice. We’re still behind by one and the Tornados haven’t let up yet. What the fuck are they on tonight? I feel frustration building, but also know that it will mean the beginning of the end if I let it fester. Once it does, it’s game over.

Across the ice, I try to communicate with Riley. Relax, dude. You know what they’re doing. Don’t go there. I know better than anyone that once Riley gets in the zone and sees red, it’s nearly impossible for him to snap out of it. Especially if I’m the one being targeted—like I am tonight. That usually triggers a protective streak inside Riley that makes the bear come out, growling, and blasting blindly into the opponents.

Coach gives us a long speech in the second intermission about not letting the Tornados get to us and just play our game. But that’s easy for him to say when he’s the one standing on the bench and not out there playing against these brutes. They’ve been fucking relentless in this game so far and I realize we have to change things up if we want to turn it around.

It’s the start of the third period. The guys are worn out after taking a beating for the last two, but after the last intermission, we seem to have been able to catch a second wind and come out with more force than before. The Tornados are looking worn, too, the physical game taking a toll on everyone. For the past several minutes, we’ve been on the Tornados’ end of the ice, getting a couple of shots on their goal, but none has made it past their goalie. The Tornados’ D-man, Willis, doesn’t seem to like the added pressure on his side of the ice this period, earning himself a slashing call against Kennedy, our center. I exhale, the buzz building inside, when we finally get a call in our favor and Willis is sent to the penalty box for two minutes.

Damn, we need this. It’s the break we’ve been waiting for all night. It could be a game-changer. Correction: It needs to be a game-changer. I gaze at Riley, whose face is crimson by now as he leans over his knees, panting. Our power play unit has been one of the few positives this season. On fire, as one sports reporter kindly labeled it a few weeks prior. Sucking in a deep breath, I skate over with Virtanen and meet up with Riley, Kennedy, and Badura on the Tornados’ side to start the power play. The puck is dropped, and Kennedy sends it towards me.

While we pass it back and forth, keeping it in the opposing team’s zone, the Tornados are doing everything they can to defend their net, being a man down. After a few more passes, Riley finally catches a break and gets close enough to shoot the puck, but their goalie, Mathis, isn’t giving a lot of room for us to slip one in. I watch as the goalie blocks another attempt from Kennedy, exhaustion coursing through my every limb and bone. Chest heaving, I observe the play unfold as our two minutes start winding down, keeping a close eye on the goalie. Mathis is keeping the bottom of the net blocked really well with his wide stance, and I realize that if we’re going to get one in, we have to shoot one high.

I watch as Badura approaches the net again but is blocked by one of the defensemen. Unable to get a shot off, he sends the puck over to Riley, who quickly turns it over to me. This is it. It has to be. Without wasting any time, I get as close as I can, flicking my wrist just right for the puck to come up off the ice and over their goalie’s right shoulder and into the net. In a split second, everything seems to stop, the silence deafening. Then the crowd goes fucking feral, roaring like lions on steroids, as I feel all the pent-up tension evaporate within seconds.

Before I know it, I’m hit from behind by my teammates, swept along with them in a sea of cheers and a blur of colors while they sucker punch me and scream in my face. There’s nothing like it; the best fucking feeling in the world, being showered with praise by the guys—especially after weeks of playing mediocre at best.

My gaze sweeps across the crazed crowd. Luke, Luke, Luke echoes through the rink, signs held high by the fans, the Carry On, Kid everywhere. When my recorded celly comes up on the screen, I mirror it back to the crowd, a smug grin painted across my face as I imitate the call me gesture, skating from side to side. I’ve stolen it from the French soccer player, Antonie Griezmann, who looks goddamn adorable whenever he celebrates a goal like that. It’s not like I’m much into soccer, but I sure as fuck am into the petite Frenchman and those cute ass moves of his. And that hot as fuck accent. I don’t understand a word of French, but that hasn’t kept me from watching post-game interviews with the blond soccer player. Yeah, he’s cute, for sure, and it’s no hardship watching a Griezmann compilation on YouTube, those tiny shorts making his ass look all perky and delectable, and then quickly rub one out.

The Tornadoes seem to deflate after our first goal, and with thirty seconds left of the game, Nowak scores a second, securing our first—and much-needed—win in weeks. This is for sure going to boost the team’s morale, which has hit an all-time low this season. After the game, we stay out on the ice longer than usual, celebrating with the fans. They’ve stayed true to the team during our weeklong drought, never losing faith in our ability to turn this season around. This is as much their victory as it is ours.

Minutes later, in the locker room, the relief is palpable; all the bruises and busted eyebrows were suddenly worth it. This is why I play. This is why I get up every morning and drag my tired butt down to the gym, come rain or shine, and why I drink that awful protein shake before practice. This is why I think of hockey every waking minute of the day and dream of it, too. This is why I—at twenty-two—have never had a real relationship, been on a date, or been in love, for that matter. Why I’ve never had sex aside from a few casual hookups. There are a lot of firsts I’ve yet to experience. But none of that matters when you look around at your teammates’ sweaty, beaming faces after a win. Then, it’s all worth it.

My gaze connects with a pair of steel-gray eyes across the room, a broad smile displayed on Cody’s face as Nowak whispers something against his right ear. His sweaty dirty-blond hair is plastered across his forehead, sticking to his temples, a few wayward drops trailing down his neck. Licking his bottom lip, the tip of his pink tongue peeking out, he wipes at the sweat beading across his forehead. A subtle scruff coats his chin; his unblemished skin is flushed, and a cluster of freckles is thrown across the ridge of his nose and his cheeks.

And holy shit. Holy hockey heaven. I suddenly realize I have a type. Aside from finding the French soccer player stunning, I’ve never experienced real-life attraction before. At least not like this. Not in this heart-beating-in-your-throat or I-really-want-to-know-what-his-skin-smells-like kind of way.

“Good game,” Cody calls out, offering me a timid smile, tipping his chin in genuine recognition, before pulling off his compression shirt.

“Good game, rookie,” I fucking squeak, swallowing behind the lump in my throat. Always Cool Hand Luke with a quick comment or a joke ready, I suddenly feel lost for words, my mouth impossibly dry. Blinking a couple of times, my gaze trails a little too obviously along Cody’s broad shoulders and muscular chest. A patch of blond hair rests between his pecs, his nipples pink and pointed, goosebumps surrounding them. Woah. I know this is so far beyond standard locker room etiquette, but I can’t take my eyes away from his pale, almost translucent skin, and the way his muscles ripple and flex when he moves. Moving my gaze further down his body, my eyes land on a small tattoo just above Cody’s left hip bone. Brushing at my forehead, I squint between my fingers, trying to be as subtle as possible, as I study the outline of a small fox vivid against his skin. But it isn’t the image that hits me; it’s the colors. I know those four colors. What they mean. What they represent. Black. Gray. White. And finally purple. Ace.

“Thanks, man,” Cody blushes, brushing a hand through his messed-up helmet hair, a delicate silver chain resting around his neck, licking across his collarbones. Shaking myself, I force my eyes away from the tattoo and meet Cody’s gaze instead.

“Felt good, huh?” I rasp, finding myself unable to look away from the pools of gray. I swallow slowly, my fingers suddenly itching to trace his prominent cupid’s bow. As much as the unfamiliar urge surprises me, I don’t shy away from it, instead acknowledging my attraction. Because there’s no doubt about the nature of this feeling currently inhabiting my body. It’s attraction.

“Yeah,” Cody nods, his voice quiet, tired. There’s an unspoken question in his eyes that I can’t decipher. Then he quickly breaks the connection as he rises from the bench and starts roaming through his gym bag. In a daze, I stand up and move across the room, coming to a stop next to him. The rowdiness of the locker room seems to fade into the background as I take in his slightly larger form, the freckles scattered across his broad shoulders and upper back doing weird stuff to my stomach. When hit by the scent of sweat and mint, I shift on my feet, feeling slightly unsteady. Cody must sense my presence because he looks over his shoulder before turning around.

“Did you… did you want something?” He asks hesitantly, his gaze searching my face.

“Do you speak French, Mitchell?” I hear myself ask against my better judgment, my lips moving on their own, the randomness of my question not even surprising me at this point. Cody licks his bottom lip, a puzzled frown between his brows. Then he smiles, the small, shy movement of his lips causing my stomach to do somersaults on repeat.

“Uhm, yeah. A little. Took French in high school. Why?” His voice comes out breathy, filled with cautious curiosity, his eyes swimming with exhaustion.

“No reason,” I murmur, before I shake myself out of my stupor, my gaze zeroing in on Cody’s full pink lips. “No reason.”