Slade texted me right before the game that night. A-hole

I sent him back a kissy face, a thunder cloud, and a chicken drumstick, because I was hungry.

Clay called

And? I texted.

I’m going down 2 try out

Good. Don’t be a jerk. I’ll kick your ass if U fuck w/my team.

You mean the Tide?

I ignored him. As I was ready to leave the locker room, he texted again.

I hate owing you

Sort yourself out, Diva.

He sent me a donkey and a golf flag in a hole.

I chuckled and threw my phone in my locker.

Half way through the first period, Keller, our second line left wing, took a shoulder to the head. It was a dirty hit that sent the Vancouver Brass player to the sin bin.

Keller got off the ice under his own steam, but it took a player on either side to guide him. Dr. Jerkwad took him back for concussion protocol.

We were down a man. By the end of the first period we were down a point, one-zero.

Nowak refused to play me. He screamed at the defense, he insulted our forwards.

Me, he ignored.

“We got this, boys,” I said when he left the locker room and we were all standing, ready for the second period to begin.

The women growled.

“And ladies, of course,” I said. “You know I have faith in you. You’re carrying the damn team with that power play kill.”

Wife Lundqvist, lion, yawned, baring all her teeth as she flipped me both fingers. Our female defenseman, Sava, wolf, pushed her hair out of her eyes and made a kissy face at me.

“The Brass aren’t as fast as us, aren’t as focused,” I said. “We can shut that shit down.”

“Damn right we can.” Steele finished his energy drink that smelled like grapes and hospital cleaner. “If we get the fuck off our heels. Keep your eyes on the prize, people. Take every shot, stay on the puck. We play our game, we win.”

There were a few grunts of agreement.

“This is our ice!” I yelled. A few people startled. I stood up on the bench. “Our ice!” I waved my hands over my head. “Our win! Fuckin’ take it, Tide! Bury them! Drown them. Drag them down to the bottom of the sea, arrr, Mateys!”

More faces turned my way. The cats look nauseatingly unimpressed with my makeshift cheer.

“Fuck you all,” I said with a huge smile. “You do whatever the hell you want. I’m going out there to win us a fucking game. Because the fuck with all this losing fuck. The fuck with it.”

I hopped down off the bench and punched Bill in the shoulder because he was sitting nearest me. He grunted and punched me back. And something inside me shifted, settled.

Clicked.

I gave the next guy in line a slap, which he returned, and click there was that connection again. I made my way across the locker room, thumping chests, bumping fists, slapping backs, shaking Wife Lundqvist’s hand because I was not stupid. I knew which lion to be afraid of.

Even Paski, who treated me with grudging respect now that I’d handed him his ass, went in for the high-five.

Click, click, click.

The beast in me vibrated with joy. I was going to hit that ice and break this losing streak. Even if I had to do it on my own.

But I knew I wouldn’t. Because we were a—

—pack—

—pack.

Everything in me was on high alert. Sounds were extra loud, lights cutting and bright. My heartbeat thumped in my chest, my pulse sang in my ears. I could feel other heartbeats too, hot, fast, deep, calm, ready for this battle. Ready for this win.

My team. My pack.

I jumped onto the ice and skated, warming up, shedding some of that extra adrenalin and getting my head clear. We were a man down with Keller out for the night. Nowak had no choice but to play me.

I didn’t have time to worry about it. It was time to play. Our first line stayed out on the ice and the rest of us found our places on the bench. I sat with the fourth line, squeezed water into my mouth and focused on the game.

Coach Nowak stalked the bench behind us. A boiling creature of hatred, pacing, pacing.

And then, the game was on.

Twenty minutes had never gone by so quickly. The Brass had found their spines and their speed during the break. They were putting us through our paces, hoping to put on so much gas, they’d leave us gasping for air in the gutter.

We matched them, play for play, speed for speed. Pushed hard. Pushed them harder. Fast plays, bone-cracking checks.

They made the mistake of losing track of the pass in front of our net and Husband and Wife Lundqvist cut through their D-men like two hot blades through butter, racing down the ice in a breakaway drive. Tape-to-tape and Wife Lundqvist buried that puck through the five hole.

The lights went off, the horn sounded, and we were on our feet shouting our lungs out.

Fourth line, and I was on the ice, taking this fight shoulder to shoulder with my team, my pack. I threw myself into scrum, got in front of the net to swipe for the rebounds and garbage goals.

I outskated their wingers, and taunted their D-men. I played like this was the one and last chance I’d ever have to play hockey again.

The final seconds dribbled fast, faster off the clock, chasing the zero. I took a shot at the net from the blue line. Time ticked and time tocked its last. Hammer-on-metal chimed out as six ounces of vulcanized rubber blasted the crossbar.

The audience let out a disappointed groan as the period horn blared.

It was good to know we had some fans out there.

The locker room was charged up. Lundqvists espousal got another round of back slaps and fist bumps for burying that goal. Wife Lundqvist gave us all hell for standing around while the lions did all the work.

The connections between us grew a little stronger, the threads wove a little tighter. For this moment, for this game, we were a greater whole and greater players than we could ever be on our own.

I wanted to bask in it. Laugh and jump around. Because I knew we were finally there for each other. Finally ready to do more than play. We were there to win.

Steele slapped my shoulder. “Hit the net, not the pipe, Spark.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Captain. I’ll make a note.” I mimed writing on my palm with my middle finger and he laughed.

Everyone was talking. Everyone was giving someone else shit. It felt good. It felt right.

The new guy, Bill, looked up from taping his stick. “Nice job out there.” Like I needed the not-the-alpha-right-now’s opinion.

Okay, actually, I liked his approval too.

We were finally on our way to being awesome, and I couldn’t wait to get there.

Coach Nowak did not join us in the locker room. That was strange. As the minutes flew by, everyone started watching the door, waiting for him. It wasn’t like him to leave us alone. To skip a chance to deride and threaten.

With only two minutes left until ice time, the tension in the room built and built. Brooding instead of laughter, growls instead of chirps.

No. I wasn’t going to let Nowak ruin this. His absence was tearing us down faster than his presence. Dick.

“You know what this game is worth?” I asked all those dark, grim faces. “You know what the win is worth?” I waited until eyes turned to me. “Pizza, buddies! If we win, pizza’s on me.”

Silence.

“What kind of pizza?” Steele asked. “Pizza pockets? Microwave DiGiorno?”

I made a rude sound. “Aw, hell no. This win, our win is Pie Town all the way.”

Nadreau lifted his head. He wobbled a hand back and forth. “Meh.”

“You have no taste. It’s the best damn pizza in Tacoma.” Or at least I assumed it was. I’d heard them all fighting about it on the bus back when we played the Brimstones.

“You buying the beer?” Big D asked as he swabbed the visor of his helmet. “Because a win is worth pizza and beer.”

“No,” Bill said. “Beer’s on me.”

I stared at Big D, but pointed at Bill. “What he said.”

The noise went up in the room again. The tension broken.

Bill gave me a quick grin. “New guys like us gotta stick together. Right Spark?”

“Donuts,” I said.

“Dollar,” he replied.

“And yeah, Dollar,” I said, “guys like us stick together.”

“I don’t care who’s buying,” Wife Lundqvist raked fingers through her sweaty hair to keep it out of her eyes. “I want that win.”

Third period was a whole new game. We came out hot. Line after line powered it up for the grab, the assist, the rush. We picked more pockets than a Dickens street urchin and put the heavy in heavy-hitter.

We roared.

Nowak was there at one side of the bench behind the backup goalie. Nowak was grim and red-faced, but silent, which was weird. All of the plays were being handled by the assistant coach.

I decided to ignore Nowak and keep my attention on the game. The rest of the team followed my lead.

Game stopped on a power play. A Brass player lost his cool and fast as a shot, shifted into a snarling, snapping hyena.

Big D had been all over him pushing and yammering insults at him, but he did not shift. He backed away from the beast and our massive wolf took a knee, his gaze searching and locking on mine.

The part of him connected to me surged, too wild for a moment. I breathed in, breathed out with him, for him, and that line between us went solid, smooth, steady as iron. His hard breathing calmed and the smile he gave me was villainous.

We absolutely smothered the Brass.

Five minutes left in the third, Steele dropped a juicy slap shot that slipped right through the goalie’s legs.

We were one up. We were in the lead.

We whooped and pounded sticks as first line pummeled Steele with joy, bumping helmets, hugging, before winging by the bench to slap gloves as we leaned out for them.

I jumped out with the fourth line, heavy on the defense, pushing for the net, but making sure they couldn’t get anywhere near our goalie.

Time crawled. We sweated, we dug deep. We played for every inch.

The Brass swept the puck up the ice with two swift passes.

We soared after them like trained fighter pilots, gunning them down, crowding the lanes, clipping their wings.

A quick pass, another, and they had a hole. They flung past us, putting on speed I hadn’t seen all game.

I hauled ass toward the net. Head up, stick extended, eyes on the goal. Like it was water in a desert, like it was air in an ocean, like it was pizza and free beer.

The guy I was covering smacked the puck through a forest of legs to his buddy on the far side of the ice.

We were all still barreling to the blue line, crossing to our net. Bill’s, I mean Dollar’s, opponent caught the pass and didn’t hesitate. He bent his stick in half and sent that puck screaming to our goal.

The seconds were going, going…

Dollar was just out of reach to foul the shot.

I wasn’t. I put on speed and leaped, like a man standing on a cliff who had nothing left to lose.

I hurled my body between the puck and our big Iowan giant, Johnson, in our goal.

Like a wall. Like a boulder. Like a mountain. Like a goddamned alpha.

The puck slammed my left thigh just above my knee.

Holy fuck that hurt.

I groaned and tried to push to my feet. There were too many legs, too many razor-sharp skates, too many sticks and players colliding above me.

If I didn’t move, I’d be mincemeat.

My left leg refused to take my weight so I got to my knees, looking around desperately to orient myself to the play.

But there was no play. There was only celebration.

Teammates tackled me, tackled our Iowan giant, slapping, shouting, yelling.

“Yes!”

“Fuck yes!”

“Atta boy, Donut!”

“We won!”

“We fucking won!”

“Fuck the Brass!”

“Holy shit, that block!”

I laughed and shouted back at them, piled into the clambering hug, the collision of bodies, sweat and sore muscles. It was pack.

It was joy.

It was hockey.

I glanced over at our bench. Coach Nowak was nowhere to be seen.