Playing the Field Volume 1 Box Set

Faceoff-7

At the end of the first period, Christian heads into the locker room with the rest of his team. The way the Coliseum is laid out, both locker rooms are on the same side of the rink—they lead off in separate directions off a main hallway, like a T. During games, a thick curtain divides the hallway into halves so the teams can’t interact. As Christian passes by the curtain, it flutters at the bottom, and he can hear laughter from someone on the other side. His hands tighten around the stick in his hands. They’re laughing at him, he just knows it.

In the locker room, a table has been set up with snacks and drinks. Before he can grab anything, though, the coach is in his face. “Magic or not, you have to f*****g concentrate out there,” he yells. Christian keeps his gaze down to avoid meeting the man’s eyes. “You’re not the only member of this team, kid, you hear me? The first shot was great but let up on the puck a bit. You can’t hog it the whole game.”

“Why not?” Christian mutters. “Every time I get it, it goes in the goal. We’re winning, aren’t we?”

Three to one, he wants to add, and it’s only the first period. That’s a great score, and if he’d been on the ice when Ronnie’s shift last played, it’d be three to nothing.

“The way you play,” the coach hollers, “you’re winning, and f**k the rest of the team. You have other guys out there, Madge. Let them hit the puck once or twice, what do you say?”

Christian shrugs off his words. It’s the same old story—he starts scoring big, and all the other players get pissed because he’s better than them. The Blizzard is just another stepping stone in Christian’s career path, and how will he ever attract a scout’s attention if he doesn’t take control out on the ice? That’s how he fell under the notice of Bedford’s owner. That’s how he’s going to get to the NHL.

He keeps to himself by the snack table, nibbling on a Power Bar and guzzling Gatorade. Even Burle stays away from him—the two room together when out of town on away games, and of all the players, he knows Christian best. Or rather, knows his moods, and has learned the hard way not to cross him when he’s mad. Like the rest of the team, he doesn’t know Christian, the real Christian, the person Ronnie had known. They’d been roomies, too, on the road, and there wasn’t a game last year that hadn’t ended with the two of them lying together in bed, Ronnie’s own or at a hotel, the sweaty sheets twined around their legs and their bodies hard against each other…

With a shake of his head, Christian pushes those memories away.

Someone thumps him on the shoulder; he looks up to find Burle there, helmet pushed back until it teeters precariously on the top of his head. There’s a faint smile on his grizzled visage, almost apologetic, as if he somehow knows what this game is doing to Christian and he’s sorry. “Time’s up,” he says, nodding at the hall. “You ready?”

The rest of the team is already heading back onto the ice. Christian tosses his drink away and follows Burle. He lets his teammate pull ahead, leaving him to trail behind. He should’ve been first, he thinks, at the head of the team, and the crowd would go wild when he entered the rink, arms raised high in victory. If this were the Bedford stadium, they’d call out his name as he skated into position. And if he had better teammates, he wouldn’t be the only one scoring to win—

“Magic.”

As he passes the curtain in the hallway, he hears his name from the other side. It sounds like a bad word, spat out in such hate, and it stops him in mid-stride. Someone unseen laughs, a braying jackass sound he knows too well. Eric, the fucker. Talking s**t about him, and he doesn’t even know Christian overhears.

He does something unthinkable—with the crook of his stick, he snags the edge of the curtain and pulls it aside. The Rebels are passing by, heading for the ice. When the curtain opens, they turn as one and stare, dumbfounded, at Christian. It’s one against a half dozen—stupid odds, Christian knows—but the fight’s been building in him all evening and he’s ready to remind these jerks he’d once been the best thing on their team.

Eric stands closest to him. His eyes glisten meanly and his lips curl into a snarl. Taking a step toward him, Christian threatens, “Say that again to my face.”

Placing a hand against Christian’s chest, Eric shoves him back. “Out of our locker room, Magic. You don’t belong here anymore.”

Christian pushes Eric’s hand away, and it begins. The two men scuffle in the hallway, sticks clattering against the stone walls and concrete floor. Beside them, the curtain rattles on its pole, and the men behind Eric start chanting, “Fight, fight.” Christian gets in a good punch to the stomach—he hears Eric oof! in his ear—then strong hands pull them apart. Christian keeps swinging until someone steps between them. A broad back separates him from Eric, and the sudden whiff of sporty cologne takes him to a place he hasn’t realized he missed before tonight.

Even with his back to him, Christian recognizes Ronnie’s scent and the stiff, sweaty spikes of dark, shaggy hair that stick out above the collar of his jersey.

Christian tries to edge around Ronnie, but his former teammate holds him back. The hand on the front of his jersey makes his stomach flutter, and a familiar ache blossoms at his crotch. Ronnie’s other arm is bent against Eric’s chest, holding him in check. “Stop it, right now,” Ronnie admonishes, his voice low. “Take it out on the ice.”

“Ronnie,” Eric starts, “he—”

Loud music filters down the hallway, rolling in off the ice like fog and cutting Eric off in mid-sentence. Ronnie raises his voice to shout over the noise. “Your shift is up first, isn’t it? So get out there already.”

“But—”

Ronnie shakes his head. “Just go.”

Christian makes a half-hearted attempt to lunge after Eric, but Ronnie’s arm blocks him, and the hand at his waist fists in his jersey to keep him back. The Rebels glare at him over Ronnie’s shoulder, but no one says another word. One of the younger teammates, a rookie Christian doesn’t know, shoulders by Ronnie and earns himself a punch in the back as he passes.

When the hall is clear, Christian mutters in Ronnie’s ear, “Are you f*****g him now?”

Ronnie turns, eyes narrowed, face livid. The wounded look in those eyes is all the answer he needs—Ronnie’s as tortured by tonight’s game as Christian is himself. Good. I’m not the only one.

“Get out on the ice,” Ronnie tells him. He fumbles something into Christian’s hand, a piece of paper or a ticket stub, something Christian doesn’t get a good look at before Ronnie’s pulling the curtain between them.

“Hey!” Christian cries out. He pokes his head around the curtain but the hallway is empty. Taking a step closer, he tries to peer down the short hall that leads into the Rebel’s player box and out onto the ice. “Ronnie!”

Someone grabs hold of his jersey and hauls him back on his side of the hall. Christian turns to find his coach breathing down his neck. “Magic!” he shouts angrily. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Christian crumples the piece of paper in his hand. “Nothing. I—”

“Then get out on the ice! They’re waiting on you to start.”

Quickly, Christian hurries down the hall to the player box. There he stops to remove the blade guards from his skates, and he tucks the piece of paper up under the fitted sleeve of the long underwear he has on beneath his jersey to keep him warm while on the ice. The paper chafes his wrist, and he smashes it down as he skates out into position. He can’t imagine what the message might say, but he doesn’t have time to look at it now. As he moves to face off against Eric, he pushes the paper—and Ronnie—from his mind.