Page 47 of Break Points and Face Offs

“I scored!” He turns around with a big smile on his face. It might be the first genuine smile I’ve ever seen on him.

“Congratulations. But you didn’t hit the target.”

The smile drops. I’d feel bad, but I really don’t want him getting too confident out there.

“It was a warmup.”

I snort. “Get back to it. We don’t have all day.”

He lines up another puck, looking comfortable now, and shoots. This time he holds back and I swallow. He’s catching on quickly and he isn’t half as terrible as I thought he’d be. He might just hit one. That means I’ll have to return his serve twice to win this competition. I’ve stopped a puck coming at me over 80mph before, but I was allowed to use my padded body then and I didn’t have to actually get it anywhere particular, just away from the net.

On his third try, he gets a little closer to the target in the lower left corner. At least I know it’s highly unlikely he’ll get the targets on the right side as he’s a right hander and shoots toward the left. Shooting pucks at that angle takes a lot of practice. Even Priestley Rosenthal can’t learn that fast.

He takes a few more shots at the target in the bottom left, getting closer every time. He has two pucks left when he hits it, sending it clicking back into the net.

“Congrat—”

“Wait, I’ve still got one more puck, I might be able to get another one.”

“Oh, really? It took you nine tries to get the easiest one.”

“There’s another one on the bottom there.”

He looks all cocky, but not when he realizes how hard it is to hit targets at that angle and he only has one puck with no practice shots left.

He gives it a good try anyway. It doesn’t even go near the post.

“Better luck next time.”

“I got one target, that’s still something.”

“It is.” I pat him on the back.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“Collecting the pucks.”

“Aren’t you going to show me how it’s done?”

I pause. Accuracy shooting might have been my strong suit, but I’ve watched NHLers miss a fair few targets in games like this. I’m not all that confident about my odds with Priestley breathing down my neck.

But I can’t back down now.

“Sure,” I shrug, handling a puck to where Priestley’s standing with his arms crossed. “Move.”

I push him out of the way with my hip and he slides backward in his skates. I’m trying to ignore him as I line the puck up. I could put the easy target back up, but that’d be like accepting defeat. Instead, I eye the target above the one Priestley knocked down on the left side of the net. My first shot goes in the goal, but wide of the target.

Surprisingly, Priestley doesn’t chirp me about it. Not yet, anyway. Maybe he’s saving his taunts for when I really embarrass myself.

I take another shot at the target. This time I miss by a hair. The puck clangs off the posts and comes flying out. Fuck, I hate that sound.

I try to zone out the fact that Priestley’s standing behind me somewhere. Watching me with a critical eye.

The third shot flies exactly where I want it and the target snaps back with a satisfying clink.

I turn around to gloat, but the scowl on Priestley’s face doesn’t warm me like it usually does.

“Want me to show you how to hit a backhander?”