Egotistical Puckboy (Puckboys 1)

Coach tries the new tactic of trying to motivate us before the final period, but I can’t help thinking it’s too little too late.

I try to turn my mindset around. Try to remind myself that two goals is nothing. We can do this. We can get back out there and pull a win out of our asses. It isn’t theirs to celebrate yet.

My brain doesn’t manage to convince my body though. I give away an easy pass, and barely five minutes in, I’m chasing down rookie Ayri Quinn from Buffalo and make a play for the puck too late.

He passes as I reach him, but my blade clips his skates, and he goes down. The ref calls a penalty.

“Fuck.” I pull up beside Ayri and crouch down. “You okay?”

“Jesus, Hayes.” He shoves me as I try to help him to his feet.

Another Buffalo player slams into me from the side, and I’m about to go back in for him when Ezra drags me away.

“Asshole,” I bite out, trying to shove Ezra off.

“You’re already off for two. Don’t make it worse.”

You know things are bad when Ezra is the voice of reason. I shove him away and head for the penalty box, the crowd’s jeers deafening.

I pride myself on playing clean, and as I enter the penalty box for the first time this season, I can feel my ears burning. The weight of an arena full of stares prickles the back of my neck, and I have to force my face to stay passive because I know there are cameras trained on me.

Especially when thirty seconds later, Kosik joins me.

I want to pull out my hair in frustration that the game is quickly slipping away from us. Kosik is right on the edge of the bench, and we’re both glued to the play happening on the ice.

A five-on-three power play is the worst thing to happen right now.

Buffalo charges past the blue line. There are too many of them and not enough of us.

Kosik and I jump to our feet, watching in horror as Ayri gets his payback. He dekes out Ezra and shoots. Griffith is a millisecond too late, and the puck hits the net.

The lamp lights up, and I’m straight back on the ice, but no matter how hard I fight, the seconds tick down. Nothing is smooth. Diedrich and I can’t find each other. Larsen is fuck knows where.

I try a shot back to Ezra, who passes to Diedrich, but it’s intercepted again. I almost throw my goddamn stick.

The buzzer sounds, and as the home crowd around us goes into half-hearted cheers and encouraging applause, I stand there, heaving, barely able to believe the last hour.

We lost.

In a fucking shutout.

I can’t say a word as I shake the other team’s hands and head back to the locker room. Thankfully, it’s only Coach at the press conference tonight, because there’s no way any of us want to go face the media after that mess. We played like a pack of clowns.

The locker room is subdued. I strip down to my undershirt and cool down on a bike, but none of us are talking.

“Next game will be better,” Diedrich says when we head back to the locker room to shower. I nod but don’t look at him. Kosik agrees, and so do some of the others, but I drown them out.

In the NHL, you win games, and you lose games. It just is.

But tonight, I’m not only disappointed, I’m embarrassed. I played like shit. I got a penalty. And I didn’t make even one halfway decent shot on goal.

Then a new worry hits me … what will this do to me and Ez? It’s our first loss since the start of … whatever we are, and the pretense of it being good luck obviously won’t hold weight after tonight’s disaster.

The fact I’m questioning what this monumental loss means for me and Ezra instead of focusing on what this means for the team makes me realize one glaringly obvious detail I might have missed somewhere along the way.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall for him.

I lied.

Twenty-Seven

EZRA

We fucking lost.

It was inevitable. The record for longest streak in the history of the league is seventeen. Did I really think my stupid superstition would somehow break that?

No.

Was I using that stupid good-luck-charm stuff as an excuse to keep sleeping with Anton without any consequences? You bet.

But there are consequences. Like being forced to either play it off or lay it all out there that I want to keep doing what we’re doing because I like being with him.

I’m half out of my hockey gear, my jersey and chest pads off but my hockey pants still on, and I stare at my phone for the inevitable call I’m dreading. I’m in no mood to talk to my father—or anyone—and it’s not just about the game.