THE GAME WAS BRUTAL. It was like watching a Game of Thrones fight scene. Minnesota was out for more than blood. They were out to maim and disable. Every time Max got onto the ice, I held my breath.
Two minutes into the second period someone illegally hit Max from behind after the whistle blew. He went flying and hit the boards.
The entire stadium went silent when he crumpled to the ice, his hands over his face. Trainers skated over to him and when they helped him up to his feet, blood gushed from his eyebrow. The entire stadium watched in silence as the trainers helped him off the ice.
The moment he disappeared to the dressing room, Minnesota became a different team. They weren’t there to fight; they were there to play hockey and to win.
Dad looked at his phone. “Logan doesn’t have a concussion but required 3 stitches.”
“Tell them to keep him off the ice for this period.”
Dad looked at me. “Why?”
“Because I want to see if Minnesota is changing their tune.”
“You want me to go over Baxter’s head?”
I steeled Dad with a look. “Why don’t we give Baxter a taste of what life is like without Max?”
Dad studied me for a moment. “Your call.”
He typed something on his phone. “Logan’s not happy.”
I stood up.
“Where are you going?” Dad looked at me.
“To talk to my project.”
I COULD HEAR Max arguing with the trainers. I rounded the corner of the dressing room. Max loomed over the two trainers, who were doing their best to get him to stay.
“I’m fine. Let me get out there.”
“Max, sit down for a moment.”
“Is it Baxter? That prick doesn’t want me to play?”
One trainer looked puny compared to Max, but he tried to block him from leaving. “We’re not cleared to get you back on the ice.”
“Get out of my way.”
I stepped forward and spoke above them. “It was me. I ordered you to remain off-ice for the rest of the period.”
Max froze and lifted his eyes. “What the fuck?”
I glanced at the two trainers. “Can you give us a moment?”
With relieved expressions they walked out of the room.
Max seethed. “Why would you do that?”
“This club will survive 13 minutes without you.”
“You have no business making these kinds of calls.”
“The moment you stepped off the ice, Minnesota began to play hockey.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not one illegal hit, not one penalty.”
“What’s your point?”
“They’re skating circles around our team.”
Max’s nostrils flared. “Even more reason for me to get out there.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me do this.”
“For what purpose?”
I stuck my hands on my hips. “No one appreciates you. Not the fans, not Baxter, not even my father. Let them get a taste of what life is like without you.”
Max stared me down. “No.”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to lose the game. I know that team.”
“Max, we’re ranked second in our division. What will happen to our rank if you get injured and are out for several games?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You got lucky that you didn’t break your neck with that hit against the boards or get knocked out with a concussion.”
“I want to play.”
I locked eyes with him. “And I want you to trust me.”
“Fuck.” He tossed his gloves across the dressing room.
“Listen to my reasons. The fans need to love you. When they do, the media will back off. When that happens, you become a commodity, not a liability. It means, you will have your pick of clubs after this season.”
He turned and I could see the emotion in his eyes. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Everyone uses you. They all expected you to show up and perform and they treat you like shit.”
“How does not playing help with that?”
“They need to realize how much they need you. Let them sweat out there.”
“Why does that matter so much to you?”
I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. This was my moment. To be real with him. To be honest. “Because if we get found out, I don’t want your career to be over.”
His head reared back like I had slapped him.
I dropped one more bomb. “I don’t know what you want but I want whatever this is, to continue. And I don’t want you to have to choose between hockey and me.”
He moved across the dressing room in four steps and then his mouth was on mine. His hands pushed into my hair. I moaned, opening my mouth to the kiss.
He lifted his head. “You want more?”
I moaned. “I can never get enough of you.”
He lifted his head and his eyes studied my face, looking for my truth and my honesty. “You know how I feel, right?”
I winced. “Not really.”
He stroked my hair back from my forehead. “If you were a sport, you’d be hockey.”
But you love hockey!
I reached up on my tippy toes. “Kiss me.”
He bent his head down. “Why are you so short?”
I laughed, “You’re wearing your skates.”
He yanked me over to the bench, sat down and pulled me over his lap so I straddled him.
“Max,” I felt nervous, “Anyone could come in.”
“Kiss me.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and put everything I had in my kiss. We kissed until my head swooned. He pulled back and winced.
“What?”
He shifted under me. “My protective gear doesn’t go well with a hard-on.”
I laughed again. Max had that effect on me. I felt happy when I was with him. “I can get off.”
He held me in place. “Did you mean that?”
“Mean what?”
“That you want this to continue?”
I stared into those blue eyes I had grown to love. My voice was soft. “Yes. Every word.”
He responded by kissing me breathless. He rested his forehead against mine. “Still on for tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth. “I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.”
“You’re dirty.”
He laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”
I traced my fingers over the butterfly bandage on his brow. “Are you okay?”
He shrugged, indifferent. “I have a hard head.”
“Please be careful out there.”
“You going to let me play the last period?”
“You promise not to get hurt?”
“I can handle them.”
“Make it to our date in one piece, please.”
The siren sounded, signaling the end of the second period. I scrambled off his lap, bending down to kiss him hard on the lips. “See you later.”
I could feel his blue eyes follow my ass as I walked out of the room.
I STOOD in the box and looked down at the Zamboni cleaning the ice. We were down 4-1, which was an impossible score to come back from. Dad moved to stand beside me.
“How was Logan?”
“Resistant.”
“We’re down 3 points,” he sounded sour.
“Well, perhaps we should protect the one person on the ice who actually can beat these assholes instead of making him a sitting duck.”
“I told you…”
“Dad,” I stopped and turned to look at him. “Sometimes you’re wrong.”
His eyes widened, but to his credit, he didn’t speak.
THE THIRD PERIOD was a different game. Instead of being on the defense, our team worked together like a swarm of soldiers, cross-checking and hitting anything and everything that moved on the ice. It was violent and brutal and three fights broke out. Our players didn’t stand around watching. When one of their own got into an altercation, all the players got involved.
We were bleeding and bruised. But Minnesota bled more.
We fought our way back to a tie and when Max got a breakaway, it felt like the entire stadium held its breath. When he shot the puck, in what seemed like an impossible shot, and scored, the entire stadium went berserk.
Dad stood beside me, his arms crossed.
“You hear that?” I asked him.
“What?”
“That’s the sound of long overdue appreciation.”
Max circled the net, and for the first time since I had seen him play for the Wolves, he lifted his head and smiled up at the crowd. The roar of the crowd heightened.
“Thirteen minutes,” I shook my head.
“What?”
“That’s how long it took this crowd to realize they needed him.”
