The ice was soft in Florida and the edges of Beau’s skates bit deep, slowing him down and throwing off his turns. The crowd was large and vocal, screaming in unison about how much individual players on the Tornadoes sucked. The Blades were a tough team, dealing out hits like they got paid extra for each Tornado they took down.

And Beau was playing one of the best games of his career.

It was like time had slowed down, and he could see the plays unfolding in slow motion. He knew where the puck was going to be, who was in its trajectory, and what his options were. How he needed to compensate for the ice and the abilities, or lack thereof, of his teammates.

The first period had been a battle of the goalies, ending with eleven shots on goal from the Tornadoes, six from the Everblades, and no score.

The coach had some choice words for them in the locker room during intermission. “Get the fucking puck to the front of the fucking net. Stop being pussies and take the damn hits. Delia and Hopper can’t carry the whole fucking team.” He pointed at them. “You guys got anything to say?”

“A few things,” Beau said. “One, cut your blades shallow. The ice is worse than it was during practice. And two, their defense on their second and third lines are easy to fake out. Fake passes, misdirection, we should be able to get it past them. Now their brick wall of a goalie…”

“He’s weak on his stick side,” Delia added. “Especially with those over-the-hip shots.”

“How can you see that from all the way down there?” Riley asked.

“Along with striking good looks and a huge cock, the good Lord granted me with excellent vision,” he said seriously. “But we can talk more about me later. Seriously though, what else do I have to do, with you guys keeping the action in their d-zone? Nice job. For now, watch for the rebounds. If you can get him down into a butterfly, it’s an easy shot over the top of his blocker. He can’t get it up fast enough and he tends to yank his elbow in like this.” Delia demonstrated. “It points his blocker to the back of the net.”

Mooney nodded his agreement. “Damn right. So just keep hammering. Get those big bodies up there screening like a mother. Youngblood, Baptiste, I’m looking at you. And get those pucks to the net.”

The second period went better, with an icing penalty for the Tornadoes that had Beau and his line on the ice for an exhausting minute and a half. Good thing he’d upped his cardio the past few weeks.

With forty-seconds left in the period, Beau sent the puck flying off the glass and out into the Blades’ defensive zone. Riley headed for the corner, and Beau headed down ice.

Riley won the heated battle along the boards and knocked the puck out, sending it spinng across the ice.

Beau skated around the Blades’ defense like they were standing still, caught the pass and faked a rush at the net. Spinning around, he sent a drop pass behind him, hoping to hell that Youngblood was where he was supposed to be.

Miracles of miracles, he was, He stopped the puck right in the high slot but instead of shooting it in, passed it back to Hopper. As the Blades’ D-men followed the puck, Beau slammed it across the crease. Riley stood undefended in front of the goal. As soon as the puck hit his tape, he popped it into the net, right over the goalie’s blocker, just like Delia had said.

“Yeah! That how you do it!” Beau yelled, racing over to Riley to jump on his back. “Fuck, yeah!” Smiling like a loon, Beau smacked Youngblood on the shoulder. “Fucking yeah, Blood. Way to be right fucking there!”

It was downhill for the Everblades from there, and the Tornadoes won five to one. The crowd had started emptying somewhere around the third goal.

The atmosphere in the locker room was the best Beau could remember. You’d think they had won the Kelly Cup. Slipping his tie over his head, he smiled watching the younger guys roughhousing.

“Hopper,” Mooney barked from his temporary office. “Get in here.”

Beau flicked his gaze toward Delia, who just shrugged. He let his bag drop and made his way into the office, closing the door behind him.

“You were great out there. Haven’t seen skill like that even from some of the younger ones.”

Surely Coach Mooney hadn’t called him in just to talk about how great he’d been. The day Hardass Mooney complimented a player without having something else to say was the day Beau would eat his stick.

“Thanks, Coach,” he said, eyeing him with interest. “Now, why’d you really want me?”

Mooney pulled out a cigar and put one to his lip without lighting it. “Pack your shit. I just got off the call. You’re going to Seattle. I got you a spot on the Lightning.”

That couldn’t be right. Beau must have misheard. “But they’re AHL.”

“Damn right they are. You’re moving up in the world, Hopper.”

“I’m almost thirty.”

Mooney waved his unlit cigar in the air, dismissing Beau’s concerns. “You’re a baby. If I had grandkids, they’d be your age. Besides, the Lightning are looking for a little leadership, some cool heads. A couple of their best guys got called up to the Thunder for the run to the playoffs.”

“Oh. Well. Shit.” He slumped back in the uncomfortable chair. That was a good thing, right? Hockey was his passion, and this would be one step closer to his dream. Even his father would have to respect him then. Hell, he had trophies saying as much. And it was a better deal than going to Argentina. So why wasn’t he more enthusiastic? Instead of the elation and lightness he thought he would feel, his chest felt hollow, as though something had been taken from him.

“I give you news half the guys would knife their mothers for and all you got to say to me is ‘oh?’” Mooney narrowed his eyes.

“No. Sorry. I’m grateful, I am. It’s just a shock. Truthfully, I’d expected not to get picked up at all.”

“Trust me. I know. But you’re finally living up to your potential. That hockey brain finally kicked in. Took you long enough.”

“How long to I have to decide?”

“Decide? There’s nothing to decide on.” When Beau didn’t say anything, Mooney chomped on the soggy end of his cigar and stared at him. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Forty-eight hours,” he said finally.

“From when we get home?”

Mooney nodded reluctantly.

It didn’t feel like enough time, but nothing would. Now all he had to do was tell Connor.

But when Connor called that night, he was full of news about Fiona’s fight, his run in with the social services guy, and going out after the game with some other parents, and Beau didn’t have the heart to tell him. He’d wait until he was home. This kind of news should be delivered in person.