Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(77)

I can’t let that fucker win.

“Listen up, guys!” Rebecca trots into the room, wearing a purple dress and matching heels. “Tonight, rain or shine, we’re having a victory party in the hotel lobby.”

“What?” Castro yelps. “Did you just jinx us? Have you met hockey players?”

“I thought you might say that,” Rebecca says with a smile. “But victory means something special to me tonight. This is only one regular-season game. It doesn’t matter all that much.”

“It does to me,” O’Doul grumbles.

“Be that as it may,” Rebecca says, undaunted. “Nate is in Dallas with us tonight, and this is the city where he proposed to me. So that’s a victory right there. Furthermore, the last time we had a victory party at this hotel, they served the most amazing queso dip, and I’ve been thinking about it for two years.”

“That’s what Tex-Mex will do to you,” I mutter, and Rebecca grins.

But she’s not done talking. “And, lastly, I love the whole bunch of you! So why wouldn’t I feel like celebrating? I already feel victorious. Now go do your thing, and I’ll see you afterward. For queso and champagne, no matter what.”

Coach stands up and does a slow clap. “Hear, hear! Becca is full of wisdom tonight, boys. We have to do things a little differently tonight.”

“Like, score and stuff,” Castro grumbles.

“That would be nice,” Coach agrees. “But tonight is really about attitude. Whoever keeps a cool head will win this game. They’re gonna play dirty. They’re gonna chirp like insulting you is the newest Olympic sport. Don’t fall for it. Whoever stays out of the penalty box tonight gets first dibs on the queso dip at the party.”

A bark of a laugh escapes me. Who are these nutters, anyway?

Castro looks back at me and just shakes his head. “Fucking Dallas,” he says.

“FUCKING DALLAS!” the rest of the team yells back.

I crack up right here on the bench. And for a hot second, I feel like I’m in the right dressing room after all.





It gets weird again, though, when we skate out for the pregame ceremonies. I get chills as I’m hit with the familiar lighting and acoustics. Every stadium has its own vibe, and every team’s home is a little different. I spent so many years of my life right here.

God, the sweat I left in this building. In this city. When I left, I had some regrets. But it’s dawning on me that I don’t anymore. I earned a championship ring here, for starters. Who could regret that? And I can truly say that I gave Dallas everything I had.

Just like I gave Jordanna everything I had. That’s all a man can do. His best.

There’s no more time for epiphanies, though. We stand in two long rows while the announcer calls out the starting lineup, and spotlights zigzag across the freshly surfaced ice.

The fans go wild for every Dallas player, as they should. Then they provide a smattering of polite applause for my new teammates as the Brooklyn team is announced.

Until we get to me.

“Number 27, and formerly of Dallas, MARK TANKIEWICZ!”

I expected a little cheer, just because there have to be kids in the stands still wearing my jersey. But the place roars for me. It’s fucking deafening.

Whoa. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t matter to me. The roof is shaking as these Dallas hockey fans spend a long minute recognizing my contribution.

I’m not going to forget this any time soon.

When I glance across the ice at Bart Palacio, though, he is not a happy man. Like it might kill him to admit that we did some good work on this ice together. After tonight, I do not have to put up with that prick for a nice long time. Now, there’s something to look forward to.

I put my hand on my heart for the national anthem. When I check Palacio’s face again, he looks murderous. It calms me down an iota, because I finally feel like I’m on my way back up. Bart has more to lose tonight than I do.

If I can just remember that for the next two hours, things might just shake out right.





The crowd quiets down as we get into position for the first faceoff. I love that first silence—when everything stops except the pounding of our hearts. The moment is pregnant with possibility. Anything could happen, and no mistakes have been made.

Then the ref drops that six-ounce hunk of rubber, and we all leap into action at once. Castro wins the faceoff, flipping the puck back to me, and I flip it to O’Doul, who moves up.

The game is a tight, dirty scrum from the first minute. Dallas goes right for the kill, unsparing with their sharp elbows and slashing sticks. There’s more cursing than on a naval submarine and more untempered testosterone than in an army battalion.

Keep your head down and skate fast, I coach myself.

Palacio isn’t having it. His role, apparently, is to get up in my face. “Smug little bitch,” he growls as I guard him. “Still got a limp dick? Didn’t see any coverage of you with the puck bunnies in Brooklyn.”

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Honestly, it’s not that hard to tune out his patter.

Trevi and Campeau battle it out, trying to make some opportunities. But—Jesus—Palacio’s snarling face is always in front of mine. And when I catch a pass from O’Doul, Palacio goes in hard. He slashes my ankle so egregiously that I shout in pain.