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By the time we’ve reached third period, Rhett’s racked up two goals, two assists, and two penalties.
“Wow, a double Gordie Howe hat-trick,” Kam says. “Not sure if I’ve even seen that. He must be trying to impress you.”
Don’t know what that is, and I refuse to play into strange hockeyisms so soon into my relationship with hockey. But by this point, the pub crowd is on its feet. We’re down by a goal, and it’s been a brutal game.
The puck lands with a solidthwackagainst Jack’s stick and he gets that look in his eyes I’ve seen before when he’s practiced with Rhett, the one that says he’s about to score a goal. His skates claw the ice with the same confidence and the pub crowd feels it too, holding its breath.
“Cmon, Jack,” I murmur. This would mean so much to him. He hasn’t gotten much ice time until tonight, it would be his first goal as a rookie.
Jack takes the shot. At the same time as the puck leaves his stick, one of the defensemen from the other team pokes his stick out. Jack’s chest meets the ice, but his head’s still up, watching the puck as it lands sweetly behind the goaltender.
Arms fly into the air; the roar of the pub crowd could drown out a herd of angry elephants. People hug and pat each other on the back, congratulating each other as if they’d been the ones to score the goal.
Pride fills my chest, too. Jack’s gonna be thrilled. He’s been nervous, doing that thing he does with his hat, bending the rim so much I’m surprised his disgusting lucky hat is still alive.
The ref skates to the middle of the ice as hockey players mill about and the volume of the pub crowd silences like someone pressed the mute button.
“What’s going on?” I ask Kam.
“Shit. Not good,” Kam says.
“On the previous play, we have a hooking minor to Calgary and an embellishment minor to New York, therefore we have no goal,” the ref says to the crowd.
“What? Did he just say no goal? What the fuck?” I say.
Pints of beer are slammed, sloshing over the rims. You’d never know how jovial the atmosphere was two seconds ago with the number of scowling faces and booing howls filling the pub now.
“Get off your knees and stop blowin’ the game ref!” someone shouts from the back corner.
Kam nudges me. “Don’t worry, he’ll get another one. If not this game, the next.”
The devastation must be plain on my face. Will Jack get another chance, though? Somehow, he was blessed with actual ice time tonight. What if Maxwell keeps fucking with all that? This was supposed to take my mind off his dickery, but dammit, now I’m back to anxious thoughts about that guy.
I’m gonna get you more ice time, Jack.Rhett said no socials, but this needs to be done.
“Take a selfie with me?” I ask Kam.
“Always, bestie!”
“We’re not … never mind.”
I post to the Gram immediately with the caption,Supporting our men and my brother Jack Leslie tonight @ThePub. You’ll get it next time!
My phone explodes with notifications. I don’t make the mistake of reading the comments, but the number of likes I’m getting is good.
I think.
* * *
Merc’s a sight for sore eyes when he arrives at the apartment. Ari has Stanley, so I’m able to latch myself around Merc’s torso. “Good to see you, kid.”
“Our boyfriends are the same age,” I say like the cocky shit I am.
He whacks me upside the head. “You’re lucky I missed your bratness so much. Sit down, we’re having a talk.”
“But you haven’t unpacked. C’mon, Merc.” My stalling doesn’t work.
Merc fluffs the hair atop my head. “This won’t take long.”
