Delayed Penalty (Crossing the Line, #1)(2)

"C'mon boys, push the f*ckin' puck!" The penalty keeper turned toward me with a smirk, knowing I was only getting started. "Push it!"

Leo had the puck racing toward the corner, pumping his legs with exaggerated enthusiasm. He bumped the right wing for Detroit. He turned to protest, but Leo stole the puck again and streaked up the right wing. Shelby Wright, our right wing, broke away with him and cut an opening at center. Leo saw him and angled his body toward him as though he was going to pass and then didn't. Shelby swung sharply to his left to stay onside, his skates chattering violently.

Leo chuckled, his eyes bright with excitement, as this goal would tie the game. He moved against another center for Detroit, faked left and right, then pretended to stumble against him, Leo laughing as they both fell. The Detroit center wasn't impressed and struggled to find his balance once again.

Kelly Boyd, another right-winger fresh off a shift change, charged up to them, spraying snow in the center's face. Kelly hacked at the puck, pushing it loose before passing back to Leo, who positioned himself to the right of the crease.

"Fuckin' A, Orting! That's how you move the puck!" I yelled toward our star center when he faked left and then right, fooling the goalie for Detroit when he spun around and snagged the upper right of the net. "That's how you do it, man!"

The whistle blew, and I was out the door heading back onto the ice as the lights flashed with the goal, and "Chelsea Dagger" blared through the arena.

A hockey game would stop at least a hundred times for things like off-sides, icing, penalties, pucks frozen under bodies and along boards, in a goalies' hands, and the occasional release of pent up frustration. That number varied depending on the game and the team we were playing, but for the most part it remained the same. And though the game stopped at the whistle, for us and the devoted fans cheering us on, it never really stopped. It was a passionate sport that people believed in. It was the same sport that had little boys hacking at pucks in sub-zero temperatures until their fingers were blue.

It was who we were as hockey players and the heart of everything we believed in since we learned how to skate and push a puck around. You never told a hockey player it was just a game, because to him, that was an insult of the worst kind. Nothing mattered more to our souls and the amount of heart we put into this game. True to the words, no bond was greater than the ones you bled for. I believed that and played the game that way.

My team—the Chicago Blackhawks—we were brothers that would lay everything on the line to protect our own.

The way I saw it, a team was only as good as their unity, and unity in hockey was everything. You even learned that back in the junior leagues. Just like any team or marriage, when it was good, it was really good. When it was bad, it was f*cking horrible, and you were left constantly searching for the romance again. It was never fun to be on a team where there was weakness where there once was power—or discovered distance where there once was desire. No team wanted that.

To a hockey team, the bond was more than winning. There was unity, culture, politics, and everything in between you found with a professional sports club, and you couldn't avoid that. When we lost, we were just a hockey team. And it seemed, though we never wanted to admit it, we were just a team.

We all worked toward the same goal, as did any team—winning. Once you found that, you got that romance of a hockey team back and it was a good feeling.

We had the romance now. Our team was on a seven-game streak and pulled off the eighth straight victory that night against the Red Wings.

After a win, the same energy swirled within the players. Something that wasn't funny or was too personal, too embarrassing, too important became hilarious as we boarded the bus to head back to Chicago.

The boys were rowdy, shooting off one-liners at each other, harassing the rookies, f*cking with the coaches, and playing practical jokes, mostly fueled by Leo and me. While most were preparing for Christmas and living normal lives, we were the Chicago Blackhawks.

One would think it was just another win, but they didn't understand because to a hockey player, it wasn't just a win. It couldn't be understood by anyone other than a hockey player who'd struggled between that distance and desire or weakness and power, and who'd spent his life pushing a puck around.

"Can you believe this snow?" Leo asked sometime after we hit I-90 West heading toward Chicago. We usually flew home when the drive was longer than a few hours, but with the sketchy weather, we were forced to drive when the plane froze. I couldn't understand the logic behind driving if the plane was frozen. That just seemed dumb to me.

"No, I can't," I mumbled miserably, glancing out the bus window. Leo sat beside me looking like a kid in a candy store as he watched cars sliding around trying to gain control.

It was really coming down. I knew any chance at getting home to Pittsburgh in this snow was slim. I really wanted to be home with my family for the holidays, in a place where I felt comfortable, rather than in a city I barely knew. The thrill of the victory was high, but there was a low present from not being able to spend Christmas with my family.

Caitlin, my younger sister, hounded me endlessly about being home this Christmas for God knows what reason, probably so she'd have someone to fall victim to her frequent abuse. My younger sister was a brat, but I still loved her.

If you haven't already noticed, I'm a hockey player. And yes, in case you're wondering, I have all my teeth. Sure, two are fake, but I have them.