Offside (59 page)

C
hugging down coffee between periods wasn’t Scott’s thing, but he couldn’t seem to shake that sleepy feeling. He drank two cups, careful to tip the mug at the side of his mouth that wasn’t taped. Florida was playing pretty rough, like they wanted to leave an impact. His whole body felt like one huge aching, throbbing bruise.

He grinned at White as Doc cleaned up his bloody knuckles. That last dirty check might have stunned Scott, might have left him looking like a rag doll tossed on the ice, but the other guy looked much worse after White was done with him.

White gave him a salute, then held still as Doc taped a cut under his eye.

Tim paced back and forth across the locker room, his suit rumpled, his eyes snapping with rage. “We’re holding our own. It’s tied up at one, but they’re walking all over you out there. How about we try throwing some checks instead of just scooping ourselves off the ice after they nail us into the boards?”

Carter hunched over, holding a bag of ice to one of his two black eyes. He chewed hard on his mouthpiece and scowled. “Sorry, Coach. You said discipline, right?”

Stroking his jaw, Tim observed the men for a moment. He stopped in the center of the room, then hooked his thumbs to the pockets of his grey slacks, giving an offhand shrug. “Be hard on the forecheck. Don’t let up. They may have some brutes, but you guys are faster. Wear them out, and if you can figure out how to make them hurt without spending time in the box—” he directed a pointed look straight at White “—do so.” He squared his shoulders, eyes narrowing slightly. “Vanek.”

Vanek froze with his water bottle halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, Coach?”

“You don’t get more points for the goal being pretty. Shoot or fucking pass.” Tim waited for his nod, then turned to Richards, giving the kid’s shoulder a squeeze. “That goal was perfect. On and off your stick, nice and clean. Keep it up.”

Richards ducked his head, his cheeks flushed. “Thanks, Coach.”

“All right, boys, get back out there!” Tim’s face broke into a wide smile as he regarded them all like he knew they wouldn’t disappoint him. “You’re playing a tight game—better than you’ve played so far. Bring it home!”

The men shouted and cheered, hustling back out to the ice. Scott bumped shoulders with Zach in the hall, pumped up and ready to win their last preseason game. Zach grinned at him, lightly tapping his helmet before they sidled onto the bench. Second shift, Scott took the face-off to Hunt’s left. The young goalie had made some awesome saves. Tim had met with him before the game, and whatever he’d said had restored the kid’s confidence. Hell, Scott was pretty sure he’d seen the kid crack a smile once or twice.

Head up, Scott waited for the signal from the ref. He felt rather than saw the puck touch his stick, then swept it back to Palladino, his right winger. A smooth pass to Pischlar and the three of them were racing across the rink with the Panthers on their heels, one defenseman all that stood between them and the goalie. Pischlar slid the puck over to Scott. Anticipated him picking up speed and crossed the zone a step ahead of the puck.

Offside. Face-off in the neutral zone. Scott won again and cut straight through the offense, skidding the puck through the defenseman’s legs. Pischlar cupped the pass. Lifted the puck high. It soared over the goalie’s shoulder.

Goal!
Scott and Palladino slammed into Pischlar. They skated by the Cobra’s bench to knock fists with all the players. The next line hit the ice, practically trampling the Panthers after Manning won the faceoff. The Panther’s goalie made a miraculous save, passing on the puck rather than freezing it. Scott sat forward on the bench as the Panthers’ top line cut straight across the ice. Zach swiped the puck, legs pumping as he sped across the neutral zone. A Panthers’ defenseman skidded into his path, sending him flying with a low hip-check. Scott tensed as Zach dropped to the ice, holding his breath when the man stayed there. His heart stuttered, but then Zach pushed to his feet, quickly catching up with the play. In their zone.

Too late. Richards had traded places with Carter. Fumbled the puck when Hunt stopped a soft shot and let off a rebound. A crowd hit the net, stabbing at the puck, the Cobras trying to clear it, the Panthers trying to poke it past Hunt.

Richards fell into Hunt. The puck glided over the goal line.

The Panthers whooped. Hunt shoved Richards, growling something. Richards shook his head, pointing at the celebrating Panthers.

“Time-out!” Tim called. He gestured at the ref, then put one foot on the bench beside Mason as the men gathered around and in front of the bench. His eyes were on Hunt. “Take a deep fucking breath, Hunt. You’re a fucking professional. Act like one.”

“Kinda hard to do my job with that stupid shit sitting in my fucking lap!” Hunt jabbed his stick at Richards. “You’re seriously going to blame me?”

“He’s not throwing a fit. Ingerslov’s out with the same flu Mason had, but I’m more than willing to give Sampson a shot.” Tim nodded toward the backup goalie, brought up from the minors just for this game. “Calm down or I’m pulling you.”

“You can’t fucking pull me with five minutes left to the game!”

Tim gave the kid a level look. “Watch me.”

With the time-out over, the third line resumed the play. But the atmosphere seemed to have changed. Scott tried to focus on the game, but it was hard with the trainer and the assistant coach talking to Zach about who knew what. He lifted his head, watching as the trainer helped Zach stand, then walked with him away from the bench and out of sight. Only a hand on Scott’s shoulder kept him from following.

“Go see him after the game, Demyan.” Mason kept his gaze on the ice, but his lips slanted slightly, as though he understood. He patted Scott’s back when Tim called for a line change. “Tell him all about the win.”

Win. Right.
Scott hopped over the boards, taking a deep inhale of the fresh, ice-nipped air. He tapped his stick on the ice and Carter sent him a swift, precise pass. They both lunged forward, Vanek only a pace behind. Scott sent the puck back to Stills, who snapped it to Vanek. Vanek did some fancy stick work, twisting around a Panthers’ defenseman. Then shocked Scott by passing the puck over. He jumped when Scott riffled a shot stick side on the Panthers’ goalie. The goalie knocked it down. Carter dove to catch the rebound with the tip of his stick.

The puck crept over the line. The goalie dropped to stop it.

A little too late.

More hugging and cheering. Carter even knocked his helmet with Vanek’s, all forgiven.

Vanek laughed, skating with Carter to the bench. “Facedown, ass up. You’re a needy fuck, Carter.”

“Damn straight.” Carter snorted, giving Vanek a quick face wash with his smelly glove. “Don’t be jealous, kid. You’ll see Chicklet soon, and I know what kind of toys she’s got.”

“Fuck you, you fucking perv!”

Scott rolled his eyes as they all got to the bench and he heard Carter whisper something like “Ask my Master, pretty boy.”

“You guys better stop it.” Scott’s lips twisted as the two young men stared at him. Yeah, he was being the mature one. “Makes the other guys uncomfortable when we talk about that stuff. Keep it off the bench at least, ‘kay?”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Mason inclined his head to Scott, giving Carter and Vanek a look that would likely shut them both up for the rest of the night.

At the other end of the bench, Ramos shook his head, shoulders shaking like he was laughing. The mood seemed to have improved a bit. Winning elated the men and there was a lot more friendly chatter in the locker room after than there had been in a long time. The guys were still split into their own little groups, but no one was fighting. A definite improvement.

Good enough for Scott. His face hurt from grinning, and he couldn’t wait to tell Zach everything. But he couldn’t find him anywhere. His grin faded as he went to the coaches’ office, waiting outside as Tim packed up his things, nodding at whatever the assistant was saying.

“It was better, but the team’s still disconnected. I want to have a few morning skates. Another team meeting.” Tim sighed. “Work out whatever issues they’ve got.”

“I’ll tell you what the issue is.” The assistant slapped his briefcase on the desk and leaned over it. “Perron was the goddamn heart of this team. Losing Callahan was bad enough, but both?”

Tim lowered his voice. Scott held his breath to hear him. “There’s no guarantee that we’ve lost Perron. I won’t get their hopes up, but he dislocated his shoulder at a rodeo in Calgary. He hasn’t signed yet and there are rumors that he fired his agent. I have a feeling he wasn’t so sure about leaving. My brother and Keane have been talking to him directly.”

“And?” The assistant sounded excited. “Do you think—?”

“What I think is we’ve got to get this team to pull together, whether or not he comes back.” Tim cleared his throat. “Mr. Demyan, I expect you to keep this to yourself.”

Stepping into the office, Scott nodded, a rueful smile on his lips. “I won’t say a word. Be good to have him though.”

“It would.” Tim gathered his things, glancing at Scott as he made his way out. “Zach’s already gone. The doctor was on the first flight out, and the travel coordinator was able to get Zach on the same flight. It’s nothing serious—left thigh contusion. We have a few days before the first regular season game, so we wanted to make sure it was taken care of right away. He’ll have an MRI tonight. Start therapy in a day or so if possible.”

Scott frowned. “Yeah, all right. But can’t I head back tonight too?”

“Honestly? I’d rather you didn’t. It won’t look good and—” Tom groaned, shaking his head. “I hate saying shit like that, I hope you know. If he was in bad shape, I’d tell you to fuck appearances. But it’s not worth it.”

Shit.
Scott swallowed, but didn’t bother arguing. Zach would be telling him the same thing if he were here.

Hours later, Zach called and confirmed that it really wasn’t a big deal. So minor the doctor was already telling him he might be back in the lineup for their first regular season game. Zach made Scott promise to follow Stephan’s instructions, hit the gym, maybe go see Becky?

Scott was ready to promise Zach just about anything. So long as he’d be able to see him. And hell, since it wasn’t so bad, maybe they could see Becky together. Scott smiled a little, thinking about how she’d fuss over Zach. This injury could be enough to break the ice.

“I want to see her—and you. I’ll call you both tomorrow, but it’s just . . . fuck.” Zach’s soft curse dimmed the bit of optimism Scott had managed to work up. “With therapy and everything my agent has planned for me . . . I don’t know how much I’ll be around, Scott. You know it’s not because I don’t want to see you, right? Because I do.”

“I know you do, pal.” Scott sat on his packed suitcase, holding in a sigh. He did know. And he wouldn’t let Zach feel bad because life fucking sucked sometimes. “We’ve only got two games that week. We’ll have plenty of time after.”

“We will. But call me every night anyway—doesn’t matter what time.” Zach let out a bitter laugh. “Damn it, it sounds like we’re gonna be in two different countries.”

“Could happen. Hell, Zach, I’m not new at this. I know how it is. We’ll be fine.” Scott knew that wasn’t what Zach wanted to hear. He forced a smile Zach would hear in his tone. “I’ll be fine.”

That night, the bed seemed big, cold, and empty. Scott got up to turn off the AC, then lay on top of the sheets in only his boxers, skin sticky with sweat. He got up and turned the AC back on. Flicked on the TV. Couldn’t find anything to watch. Turned it off.

His phone buzzed. He smirked, sure Zach couldn’t sleep either. He answered without checking the number.

“Hey, babe, miss me already?”

“Babe?” Jimmy snorted. “Some chick you’re serious about, or were you expecting a booty call?”

Scott sat up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. Ice slithered over his damp skin. His stomach turned into a clenched stone fist. “What do you want, Jimmy?”

“Some way to talk to your brother. What do you think I want?” Jimmy snapped out each word, his bitterness seeping through his tone. “You don’t have to be a dick about it. Not all of us are so lucky and—”

“Fuck you, okay? I’ll send you some fucking money!” Scott stood, jabbing his thumb down to end the call. His guts flipped, twisted, and his head spun. He tossed his phone, hearing it shatter as he cut across the room and opened the minibar. He grabbed a few small bottles. Chose one.

Rum.
He dropped it, laughing as his eyes teared. How pathetic. How fucked up. Ever since Becky and Zach had come into his life, it was like he couldn’t deal with anything properly. Couldn’t shut things off when he needed to. Since when did he freak out like this when Jimmy called? He had the money. Jimmy didn’t. Pretty fucking simple.

Only it wasn’t simple. His brother hated him.

And he had every reason to.

* * * *

So many girls in the Ice Girl uniform, standing in the hall, waiting to go out on to the ice. Many wouldn’t return. The fans would vote and some of the young women would go home with nothing but fond memories.

Akira couldn’t be one of those. She’d worked too hard. They all had, but the other girls didn’t have their whole futures riding on this. Most were hopeful, but realistic. They chatted about school. Boyfriends. About what they would do if they didn’t make it because that would be okay. The theme was “I’m not gonna cry.”

Can’t say the same. Can’t . . .
She was going to be sick. Ten minutes to stand in the hall, waiting to put on a three-minute show that would make or break her. Her bottom lip quivered. She slipped by the other girls, feeling for the door, sure her makeup would be ruined by her tears.

The forum was sold out, which didn’t happen often. The event coordinator had stressed that their performances had drawn people from across the Maritimes, from Quebec, even from New York—and the Rangers fans weren’t coming all this way just to watch their team. Other teams had Ice Girls, but they played a small part. The Cobras Ice Girls were becoming celebrities in their own right. They could be a big part of their team’s success. All the media attention would help the team nail down a few more years.