It's Our Time (Carolina Rebels 3)
I tune out and head to the kitchen area to fix something to eat. Zane comes over to claim the seat next to me. “How’s it going?” I ask.
“Good. So, you’re meeting the family? Are you nervous?”
“Not nervous. Not sure I’m looking forward to it, but not nervous. Last time I saw her mom was when I drove down to surprise Sydney and take her to prom. Her mom didn’t even know I existed up until then.”
“So, you don’t know if she likes you.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m going to be around one way or another, so she should get used to me at least.” I hope she’ll like me. That will make things easier. It’s not what I need to think about right now, however. There’s a game to be played in a few hours.
In the meantime, I stretch, play a little soccer with the guys, stretch some more, and briefly wonder what Sydney’s reaction will be. When they enter the box tonight, there’s a bag with her name on it. Inside is a jersey. I was able to do that earlier.
Soon, we’re taking the ice for warmups. This is usually when my head truly clears. I don’t pay any attention to the crowd that has gathered at the glass for an up-close look before they have to return to their seats. Any signs that are held up are a blur. The noise they make doesn’t seem to exist. Nothing outside of the ice exists. It’s one reason why it threw me off when I actually noticed Sydney that night. I happened to glance up and caught sight of her.
By the time the puck drops for the game, I may not be on the ice for the first shift, but I’m pumped and ready to go. We’re playing the Sharks tonight. They’re a physical team, but our speed has been increasing. Here’s to hoping we skate circles around them and get as few bruises as possible.
That’s a fun thought.
I’m on the ice all of ten seconds for my first shift when some guy hip-checks me. It’s like there’s a damn target on my back because I’m hit every chance they get, and even a few times when they shouldn’t. What the fuck have I done to them?
“You’ve pissed the whole fucking team off, Bruiser,” Z comments between shifts.
“No shit,” I reply.
They seem to be playing extra hard with everyone, but I’m getting the brunt of it when I’m on the ice. It’s pissing me the fuck off. It pisses me off even more that they’re getting under my skin and in my head. I’m on the ice in the second period right before a face-off. The guy next to me is talking shit, wanting to drop the gloves the moment the puck hits the ice.
“They only call you Bruiser because you get them?” he asks. I ignore him. “You going to drop ‘em and let us have some fun or you gonna let me have a
ll the fun.”
The puck drops. He looks at me. Why not? The moment I drop my stick, he lets go of his and the gloves are off. We grab the neck of our jerseys at the same time and I throw the first two punches, connecting with his jaw. His first one hits my helmet and then my jaw. I yank him closer and we’re nothing but a tangle of fists that sometimes connect, and sometimes don’t. My energy is drained out of me with each one. Fighting on skates while you’ve been playing a game is tiring, even if it does give you a good burst of adrenaline.
When one of us loses our footing and we fall to the ice, the refs pull us apart. Thank fuck. I’m going to need the next five minutes in the penalty box to recover. My chest is heaving. My jaw aches. My hand hurts and the skin is broken over my knuckles. I’m tired. Coach is glaring at me from across the ice.
Right.
There’s the answer to my why-not question. He didn’t want me getting into a scuffle and he said so during the first intermission, but damn. Some penalties you just take. He can bitch at me later. I’m handed ice for my hand, and I hold it there until thirty seconds before I am about to be unleashed back onto the ice.
The good news is Rebels score while I’m parking my ass on the bench, which brings the score to two-one.
The better news is during the third, I’m on the ice with Z, Donny, Hells, and Tommy Boy. A Shark turns over the puck in the neutral zone and Tommy Boy is the one to get it. He passes it to Hells as we advance toward the goalie, who is watching us as he gets into position. Hells gives it to Donny, but he doesn’t have a clear shot, so he slaps it to me and I quickly shoot it.
Three to one.
Hell yeah.
That’s the final score, too. As soon as I can, I head up to meet Sydney and everyone else. I grin when I see Sydney, Logan, Janet, and Chris, talking to Sylvia, Lizzy, Meredith, Noah, Marc, and Scott. Logan is next to Sydney, holding Savannah who appears to be conked out. Both of them are wearing a jersey with my name and number on the back. This is a much better view to walk in on than last time. Although, Logan shouldn’t be holding her considering he can’t walk without the use of crutches.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I say to get Sydney’s attention. She absolutely slays me with the smile she gives me.
“Hey.” Sydney surprises me by kissing me, tongue and all. My body demands I back her up against a wall or the bar or hike her up on the counter and either way, have her legs wrapped around my waist so I can be pressed closed to her. That’s what her kiss does to me.
“What was that for?” I whisper when she ends it.
“No reason.”
A throat is cleared and I see everyone gawking at us.
“It’s nice to see you again, Ian,” Janet says. “You’ve grown up nicely.”