Page 21 of Mother Pucker
To say that tensions are high tonight would be an understatement.
There’s a palpable energy in the arena. It’s frenetic and hot with the violent expectations of bloodthirsty fans. The playoffs are on the line, and it’s clear that both teams are out for blood.
It’s also Erik’s first time back on the ice since his injury.
Trying not to think about it is like trying not to breathe. I knew what I was getting into when I fell in love with a professional athlete. Erik’s job is dangerous and exciting. He’s never going to wear a suit and tie or work in an office. The fact is, I’ll probably worry a little every time he gears up. But loving Erik means giving him the space to do what he loves.
And there’s no question that this is where he belongs.
Erik is a force to be reckoned with on the ice tonight— quick, strong, and decisive. There’s no sign of pain or hesitation now. Watching Erik move with purpose and focus is enough to send relief flooding through my system. He’s a brick wall, guarding the net with the same single-minded determination that first made me fall in love with him.
“Let’s go, Mita!” I shout through cupped hands. “Protect the damned slot!”
I’m pacing the length of the coach’s box, watching every play with my heart in my throat. The box is spacious and well-appointed. Currently, it’s also crammed tight with staff, photographers, press, and video equipment. Emerson Stone, the Hawks’ former forward and newest AC, is pacing alongside me.
His eyes follow the puck’s every movement, missing nothing. The third period is ticking to a close and the Hawks are up by one point. It’s going to take a miracle— or some dirty hockey— to keep the Rays in the game. Emerson knows better than anyone what this team is capable of, and he looks ready for the worst.
Kai slices past us, the slash of his blades sharp enough to cut through the crowd’s screams.
There’s a loud grunt, followed by the crush of padding against the glass. For one desperate moment, my view of the ice is cut off by the struggling forms of two angry defensemen. Then the window clears in a flash of black and white stripes.
“Can someone get the ref new glasses?” Emerson gestures wildly as Kai is dragged off to the penalty box. “They were cross-checking him!”
If the official hears, he doesn’t seem to care. Emerson frowns down at the tablet in his hand, tapping angrily at the screen to bring up video footage of the last play. Armed with evidence, he stomps off in the direction of the refs. On his way through the box, Emerson looks up to see Sawyer skating past us.
“Cycle the puck!” He points over my brother’s shoulder at the new left wing. “And tell Fernandez to get his shit together or he’ll be running drills until I get tired.”
Sawyer salutes in response before skimming across the ice to deliver the message.
Emerson slipped into the role of assistant coach like it was made for him. His transition from player to AC was a smooth one. It helps that the team already respected and looked to Em for advice. With his help, the Hawks are set to finish tonight with a record-breaking season.
But I’m willing to bet that there’s more than just a career move and potential title responsible for the swagger in Emerson’s step lately.
According to Skylar— who was there— Yasmin came home from her medical conference on Friday and spent the rest of the weekend moving into Emerson’s place. Their relationship may be new, but I’ve never seen either of my friends so happy. It’s clear that Yas and Emerson are destined for their very own happily ever after.
My gaze moves instinctively to Erik at the thought.
He’s hunkered down in front of the net, using every inch of his considerable size and strength to keep the Rays out of the net. Erik’s face is obscured by the cage on his helmet. But I don’t need to see his eyes to know they’re flashing with determination. Even beneath layers of padding and protective gear, I can still read his body language like a book.
Erik bolts to the left, easily slapping away another attempt to score by Miami’s forward. Then he slides back into position, resuming his defensive stance without missing a beat. The crowd erupts in a frenzy of screams at the move.
So does my heart.
“Miss Lawson—” a microphone appears in front of my face, snapping me back to reality. “A real-time poll of viewers agrees that this is the most aggressive game of the season. How do you feel about the Rays’ strategy on the ice tonight— especially in light of Emerson Stone’s recent injury?”
It’s a loaded question, of course.
I recognize the face attached to the arm at the end of the recorder. Frank Neal is the online correspondent for one of the major networks. Sports journalists like Frank are responsible for 90% of Monday morning water cooler conversations. They’re also the cornerstone of my career.
The Rays have always skirted the line of unsportsmanlike conduct. Hockey is physical by nature— the definition of a contact sport. Add in some big players and even bigger egos and you have the ingredients for a volatile game on ice. But there’s structure to the madness. That's why safety rules and regulations are sacred among teams and players alike.
Most teams, anyway.
I’ve been scouring Internet polls and monitoring online comment sections all night. The overwhelming consensus among fans of all demographics is that the Rays crossed that line tonight in more ways than one. Diving, slashing, tripping— Miami is playing dirty and they don’t care who knows it anymore.
But bringing up the obvious without coming across as a petulant tattletale can be tricky. I know better than anyone how a careless comment made in the heat of the moment can follow you forever. Words can take on a life of their own, especially when taken out of context. The last thing I want is to tarnish the Hawks’ sterling season now.
“Every team in the league has something they excel at.” I keep my voice casual, my tone neutral. “Those differences— that competitive edge. It’s what makes this sport so damned exciting.”