Jonah (Chicago Blaze #7) - Brenda Rothert Page 0,3
Puft Marshmallow Man.” Luca shakes his head and laughs as Victor makes his way onto the ice.
He does, and I bust out laughing, too.
“What the fuck, man?” I ask my teammate. “If you fall on your ass, you’re not gonna be able to get back up.”
Vic glares at the group of us standing near the goal on the ice. Practice ended a few minutes ago, and since he lost a bet about whether the first or second line would score more goals during a drill, he has to goaltend while every player shoots three pucks at him.
“Yeah, well I know you fuckers are going to try to knock my dick off so I had to put on extra padding,” he says, sulking.
Knox gives him an incredulous look. “You’ve got a dick? I’ve never seen it in the shower. I thought you were the first female NHL player.”
“Laugh it up, assholes,” Vic says, skating over to his spot in front of the goal.
Anton’s first in line to shoot, and he says, “Don’t bitch, man. That bet was your idea.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d shoot like my fucking grandma when I made it. You’re supposed to be on the first line for a reason.”
Anton grins. “I’m not saying I deliberately missed shots so I could see you get knocked on your ass, but…I’m not saying I didn’t, either.”
He fires a puck, and as Victor slides down to block it, he loses his footing and goes down. I feel a twinge of satisfaction. As goalie, I take shit from the guys often about how it’s not as difficult or as exerting as what they do.
Bullshit. I started out playing offense as a center as a kid. In high school, my coach asked me to learn to play goalie as a backup, and I ended up loving it. Hockey is a team sport, and I’ve always liked being part of a team. But as a goalie, I have more control. I don’t have to rely on getting good passes or deal with puck hogs. I get into my own mental zone and escape everyone else during games.
I feel a lot more pressure playing as a goaltender than I did as a center. If I play well, it’s all on me, but if I don’t…that’s all on me, too.
My teammates fire at Vic, pucks hitting his padded chest or getting past him into the goal. He’s scowling, because while he’s a happy-go-lucky guy, he doesn’t like being the butt of anyone’s joke. He totally brought this on himself, though. Vic runs his mouth too much.
“You suck!” a defender named Pike yells as a puck slides through an opening between Vic’s legs.
“You get over here and try, motherfucker,” Vic calls back, waving his stick in the air.
I see movement up in the owner’s box, and I look up to see our team owner, Olivier Durand, sitting there watching us. He’s wearing a dark suit and a huge grin. I raise a hand in a wave and he waves back.
Durand’s a good guy. He bought the Chicago Blaze because he loves hockey, and he’s been willing to invest in the team and trust his coaching staff. Other teams have micromanaging owners or worse, cheap ones.
When it’s my turn, everyone turns to watch me shoot.
“He couldn’t score in a whorehouse with a hundred bucks in his hand,” Knox cracks.
I ignore him, skating from side to side with the puck. The other guys just fired from a stationary spot, but I need to handle it from an offensive standpoint a little bit before I shoot it.
As I skate closer to Vic, he crouches down and starts grumbling. “No, dude, no close range.”
He’s so focused on staying upright and protecting his junk that it’s easy to slide one in on his left side. The guys all cheer and razz Vic even harder.
In the second round, the guys start firing at Vic three and four players at a time. He’s got pucks bouncing off him all over the place. Then everyone lines up together and we all shoot at the same time. He gets hammered and ends up falling on his back, laughing.
“This’ll be on YouTube within an hour,” Knox says, holding up his cell phone, which he recorded the last shot with.
“Fuck all you fuckers,” Vic says, pulling off the blocker and trapper I loaned him and dropping them on the ice.
“Don’t just drop my trapper on the ice, prick,” I call out to him, skating over to pick up