Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(78)

But I still get the pass off. And where is the fucking whistle? They don’t call a penalty. Fuckers.

When my shift is up, the trainer slaps some tape on the bleeding gash. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I grunt.

But when I take the ice again, it’s just the same. Palacio’s ugly mug is everywhere I turn. That’s when I start to get frustrated. I trip him, because I need to see how he looks spread-eagled on the ice.

Immediately, the whistle’s shriek pierces the air, and the door to the penalty box opens. Of course I’m given a two-minute penalty. Shoot me already.

O’Doul sprays me with ice chips as he comes to a stop beside me, and I brace myself for a tongue-lashing. “Remember the queso dip,” he says.

Wait, what?

“Settle down, okay? Just don’t fight him. That’s what he wants. We’ll kill this penalty and move on. Just settle.”

“Okay,” I grunt. Even if he’s not mad, I am. I glide toward the box, grumpy as a bear.

I don’t ever look at the crowd, because who has the time? But maybe it’s the red hair that catches my eye. Bess is basically tattooed on my subconscious at this point. And when I look up, we immediately lock eyes, as though my soul knew exactly where to find her.

I hadn’t even known she was coming to Texas, but she’s the only person I can pick out in a room full of eighteen thousand people. If that’s not a sign from above, then I don’t know what is.

And she gives me a big, happy smile, as if we’ve just run into each other at the cookie shop or in the park—someplace far away from here.

It calms me down immediately. Okay. Breathe. I give her a smile before sitting down on the bench. I watch the PK team give Dallas the runaround for a hundred and twenty long seconds. And I vault out of there the moment the door opens for me.

Then I’m back in the grind again, while Dallas takes cheap shots wherever they can get ‘em. The game is sweaty and still scoreless.

I’m very careful not to draw another penalty, although Palacio does his evil best. When I skate into the corner to nab the puck, he’s right there on my ass. I get the pass off to Castro, but Palacio flattens me against the plexi with unnecessary force, somehow managing to grind his fist into my ribs.

The crowd cheers.

No whistle.

“Aw, honey, good hands,” I gasp, trying to get the oxygen back into my lungs. “But no nookie until after I win.”

He lets out an angry roar, but I feel strangely calm. The game isn’t over yet. Bess is here in Dallas, and Castro suddenly has a look on his face that tells a story. His chin lifts by a half an inch as the puck flies towards him.

Suddenly, I can just see how it’s going to go down. I picture Castro’s pass. And then I sense a low, perfect shot through the five-hole.

And I’m already in motion, feinting toward the blue line. Palacio’s body follows, shifting my opponent out of the way for Castro’s pass, which is coming right at me, just like I predicted.

I lower my stick toward the ice at the perfect angle, backhanding it toward the keeper’s skates. The goalie tries to butterfly over it, but it’s too late. The puck sails through his legs, and the lamp is lit before I even remember to blink.

It happened just like I planned. And for a moment, I’m too stunned to celebrate. Then the Dallas crowd roars its disappointment, and my teammates are grinning from ear to ear.

“FUCK YOU,” screams Palacio.

Fuck you, too! I say via a smile. As I skate back to the circle, I can see now how the game will play out. Palacio will be pissed, and the rest of the Dallas bench will be rattled.

“They’re gonna fall apart,” I say to O’Doul as we get into faceoff position again. “Watch.”

My team captain actually winks at me in response. A wink. Like we’re in some kind of Broadway musical.

The puck drops again, and everything spools out like I pictured it. Fine—like I visualized it. Doc Mulvey might know a few things.

I must be open to the fucking universe now, because I can see Palacio’s face getting redder on every play. And I can hear him dragging out every slur and taunt ever hurled across a span of ice.

“He just told me I’m like a tampon,” Trevi says as the ice girls do a quick cleanup during the media break. “Only good for one period.” He snorts. “Musta been saving that one up.”

“Yeah? He told me he’d seen better hands on a digital clock,” Baby Bayer says.

“Well, I got a Hispanic slur,” Castro says, guzzling his water. “He called me a beaner, and told me to go back where I came from. I told him—that’s Minnesota. And we’re playing there next month, so…” He shrugs.

“He’s flipping his shit.” Crikey chuckles.

“Nobody promised him any queso dip, obviously,” O’Doul adds.

“QUESO DIP!” yell two or three guys at the same time.

“Quiet, morons,” Coach says. He taps me between the shoulder blades to indicate that I’m up again. “Stay cool now.”

“Will do,” I promise. Because getting that goal past Palacio made staying cool a hell of a lot easier.

And now I have no trouble visualizing the scoreboard, because it keeps lighting up in our favor. We put four goals on it by the time we’re through.