Delayed Penalty (Crossing the Line, #1)(82)

So I picked out a nice sterling silver bracelet and then added charms to it. One was, of course, two hockey sticks crossed over each other. The other was of a guy taking a slap shot—the number five for two reasons. There was a ballerina, a baseball glove, and a piston and a shovel for her mother and father.

I wasn't sure how she would feel about it, but I wanted something that came from the heart and told her just how much our lives were intertwined now and always had been in some strange sense.

After the game in Nashville I was flying home to Pittsburgh where Ami was waiting for me with my family.

Before I could get there, we had a game to win.

"Who's that?" I asked Leo during warm-ups, watching a large bull-shouldered man stretch his stick over his arms.

"Their new d-man from Australia, Beckham Lapanta. He's lookin' for you," Leo taunted, circling me.

"Mase, he'll kick your ass," Remy warned me. "I wouldn't exactly send a message right now."

Well, I didn't say I was going to start anything with this guy, but his words made it seem almost like a challenge. Some of the other guys came over and told me the same thing. It was like the bastards were taunting me, just trying to push a little. I hadn't spent nearly as much time in the penalty box this year as I had last year.

Unfortunately for me, anytime someone told me I couldn't do something, my brain wanted to prove them wrong, and it got my body thinking I could.

Turns out, I did get my ass kicked by that Lapanta guy. But you know what? He had a nice shiner from me, too. That guy wasn't overly large, but what he lacked in size he made up for it in orneriness—orneriness I spent the entire game fighting off.

With a towel held to my face on the bench, Leo chuckled. "Want me to lay him out for you?"

"Yeah, right." I blew it off, and he seemed concerned that I didn't think he was serious.

"Listen, Mase, I would fight anyone for you." He looked up at the play in front of us when Remy slammed their center off his feet. "Well, not Remy or Travis. Or Tyler. But maybe Ryan? I'd definitely fight that son of a bitch for you."

"Thanks," I said, tossing the towel aside and barreling over the wall for my shift.

The Predators started out quickly, moving the puck into our zone and keeping it there for the first few minutes of the first period. Then, with commitment, we stiffened and pushed back. The game turned and moved to center zone. Play was sloppy on both parts, possession changes with every pass, but it seemed scoring changes were given up to things like off-sides and penalties. The game remained scoreless until well into the second period.

With an extra man on after the Predators were called on a hooking penalty, we found the coordination we were missing. Leo found an opening and managed to put one on the board for us.

The Predators tied the game quickly, scoring after I was called on a penalty against checking their right wing into the goalie. He tripped. I was standing my ground on that one.

Late in the third period, we scored again. That was when the game seemed to stop. As the defending Stanley Cup champions, we were in control and pushed the puck. I could sense the same feeling in the crowd. They knew their chance at victory was over when we were lining up on play after another.

Leo was an animal, lurking in the back, unnoticed until you least expected it. As the puck entered the Predators zone, he'd accelerate to the net with quick chopping strides and cracked one in the top corner.

Because of his style, because of the way he played the game, the moment we were under control was the moment he shoved that victory down their throats. We ended up scoring three more goals in the last eight minutes of play.

Leo's style, much like mine, was learned in street hockey in South Philly where he grew up with neighborhood kids. Quick shots that offered no room for second chances. That style was why he was the number one draft pick the year he entered and the captain of the team his first season. He led us.

After the win, we spread out on the plane, sitting with our respective partners we always sat with. It was always the same for us: checking phones, Facebook, Twitter, newspapers, stretching out looking like anyone else on a plane. But we weren't. We were the Chicago Blackhawks defending our Cup title.





Leo, Remy, and Callie ended up coming with me to my parents' house. My parents, always welcoming, loved the added guests for the holidays, and Ami did, too. Last Christmas, she had no family. This Christmas, she had a lot of people who cared about her.

I watched her closely Christmas morning. She smiled a lot. Leo was teasing her. I wasn't too sure about what, but she seemed entertained by it.

"That's the thing about hockey players, Ami..." Leo gave her a friendly suggestive bump to the shoulder. "...we're nasty motherf*ckers and think with our sticks."

I rolled my eyes. "Not all of us are."

"Bullshit." Remy coughed. "You ar—"

He didn't finish before my fist was in his gut. I played rough sometimes. Not only had he been flirting with my sixteen-year-old sister, but he was making me out to be just as nasty as him and Leo. I could be, at times, but I also didn't want to admit it in front of my girl or my mother.

Conversation twisted again, and Callie and Leo were with my sister drinking beer. Yes, they'd convinced my parents to allow their sixteen-year-old daughter to drink beer with a bunch of hockey players. Pretty much the worst idea ever.