Pipe Dreams(32)

It was on a skanky site-not a real news outlet, and it was obviously  click bait. But when the commentary loaded, her blood pressure spiked  anyway.

Saturday's drama aside, everyone knows Brooklyn's real weakness. Their  goal bench is the thinnest in the NHL. Without Mike Beacon they'd be  down to Silas Kelly. Kelly was an early-round draft pick that hasn't  panned out. Early last season he had a few good nights, but always  chokes as the season progresses. He's never stood between the pipes  during a play-offs game.

Tampa fans are probably all fantasizing about a Mike Beacon injury tonight. He'll be watching his back for sure.

It was the most irresponsible piece of tripe Lauren had ever read.

She forwarded the link to Georgia, then just sat there at her desk, stewing over it. Georgia's reply was swift.

I saw it. Just smack talk.

Sure. It was smack talk that had been retweeted nearly six hundred times before five P.M. But who was counting?

At six o'clock, Lauren accompanied her boss to the arena. She didn't  avoid the place anymore, but watching the action would be stressful for  brand-new reasons.

When the game began, it was a brutal one right from the first face-off.  Both teams skated as if they had something to prove. And they did.  Lauren found herself unaccountably nervous. Maybe it's the hormones, she  told herself. The medication she'd just started taking was probably to  blame for the nervous stirring in her stomach. Standing in Nate's box,  watching the boys fly down the ice, it was hard to remember that she  wasn't supposed to care about this team anymore.

For more than a decade of her life she'd watched fifty games a year. And  well before she and Mike were ever a couple, her eyes used to always  come to rest on the goalie. She knew his stance so well she could draw  him with her eyes closed. His long limbs were loose, waiting to spring  into action. Even the set of his shoulders as he watched the action was  familiar.

In a month, or six weeks at the latest, this exciting detour into her  old life would be finished. She might be on a jet to China, with  prenatal vitamins in her carry-on.

Tell that to her thumping heart. Tampa made an unlikely shot on goal.  She stopped breathing as Mike lunged for it. It smacked safely into his  glove, but not before her heart nearly failed.

In front of her, Nate sat watching the game with an expression as calm as Buddha's.

"How do you stand it?" Nate's father asked, putting a hand on his son's  shoulder. Nate's parents were visiting from their home in Iowa, where  they were school teachers. Lauren had met them several times already.  They were lovely people.

"The tension is killing me!" his mother squealed. "Not that I understand much about the game."

Nate, being Nate, just shrugged.

Lauren couldn't sit still any longer. She popped up out of her seat and  stalked over to the food table where Georgia hovered. As Lauren watched,  she grabbed a cheese puff and took an eager bite. "I can't take it,"  she said, chewing. "We have to win."                       
       
           



       

"I know." Lauren nabbed a cheese puff, too, and took a bite. "Let's eat our feelings."

Georgia laughed. "Glass of wine? I'm on my second."

"Sure," Lauren said, feeling reckless. All her old habits were already  thrown to the wind. What was one more? And she would probably be giving  up wine soon.

Not to mention hockey.

She let Georgia pour her a glass of sauvignon blanc, and then the two of  them watched as closely as they dared while the game ground onward.

If she keeled over from stress tonight, her obituary might as well read: Death by game III in the second round.

Down on the ice, a fight broke out between Brooklyn's Crikey and the  other team's scrapper. The fans stood up at their seats and cheered.  Lauren held her breath until Crikey shoved the other man down to the  ice, and the refs broke it up. But the players kept chirping at each  other even as the linesmen hustled them back to their teammates.

"Looks testy down there," Georgia said, chewing her lip.

"It does. That won't be the last fight of the night. I think we'll see  one each period, and a record number of penalty minutes, too."

"See, I always forget that you grew up in a hockey household like I did."

Lauren used her best bitch voice, but tonight it was meant to be ironic.  "Well, I obviously haven't treated you to enough of my insightful  commentary."

Georgia grinned. "You should watch more games up here with me, even after Becca is back. There's always room for one more."

"I'll do that," she said before realizing it was never going to happen.  The invitation was nice, but she knew she couldn't follow through. These  weeks with the team were cathartic. They were helping her to let go of  some of her own grief about times gone by. But if she stuck around she'd  just end up staring at the goalie's well-padded backside all night,  trying not to imagine how things might have been different.

That wouldn't be healthy. Not even a little.

The game ground onward. It was 1 – 1 near the end of the second period,  and she and Georgia were practically dancing a nervous jig. Lauren was  on her second glass of wine and Georgia had finished all the cheese  puffs.

The door to Nate's box burst open and Rebecca marched in. "What's the score?" she demanded.

"One to one," Lauren and Georgia said in unison.

Nate turned around in his seat, his face unreadable.

"Don't start," Becca said immediately. "It's not that late and I can't sleep if the game's on."

He turned around again, his focus back on the ice.

Becca grabbed Georgia's wineglass and sipped from it.

"I thought you weren't supposed to . . ."

"Shh!" Becca silenced her. "It's one sip. Don't alert my jailer."

Georgia fetched a soda for Becca and then fixed her with a stare. "How's  it going, anyway? I haven't heard much from you since the party in Bal  Harbour. Are you still staying at Nate's?"

"Nope." Becca took a long sip of the soda, and Lauren could swear her eyes looked a little shifty. "Back in my own apartment."

"Okay . . ." Georgia waited for more information, but none was forthcoming.

She was spared from further grilling because Tampa got the puck away from Trevi and turned toward Brooklyn's defensive zone.

"Baby, no!" Georgia yelped.

Everyone in the box tensed as Tampa rushed the net.

They fired on Mike, who deflected a shot off his stick. But the rebound was tight, and he had to dive for a second one.

Nate's box held its collective breath while Brooklyn tried to clear it.  Tampa took aim again and two players charged the net-Skews and his left  wing. When the winger shot, Mike slapped the puck away.

And then Skews plowed right into the goalie.

"Oh, Jesus," Nate said, losing his calm expression for once. "Don't you dare start a . . ."

He didn't even get the words out before Mike threw off his gloves and lunged for the other man.


• • •

Mike hadn't really lost his cool in a long damn time. But when the  asshole he was now famous for benching so recklessly ran into him, he  just snapped.

Later, he wouldn't even remember dropping his gloves or skating out of  the crease. There was just the guy's stupid smirk, and the pounding  desire inside Mike's chest to knock it off his face.

There was no skill to his attack, it was all just adrenaline and  instinct. He grabbed Skews's sweater and swung. The punch connected, but  not well. And once his opponent shook off his surprise, he was  swinging, too.                       
       
           



       

Mike ducked and then switched hands, punching the other man in the face  mask, which flew off. The next thirty seconds were a blur of fists and  grunts. His face stung and his right hand was killing him. Maybe the  fight lasted sixty seconds, but it felt like an eternity before Skews  finally lost his footing and fell, bringing Mike down on top of him.

The refs jumped in to pull them apart, and Mike was left panting, his pulse wild.

He hadn't been in a fight in three years. And wouldn't this be fun to explain to his child?

There was blood dripping off his face. He knew he looked bad when  Henry-the trainer-skidded out on his street shoes to take a look at the  damage.

Fuck.

"I'm fine," he insisted even before Henry reached him.

The guy pressed a cotton pad to his cheekbone and winced. "You can't play when you're bleeding everywhere."

"There's four minutes left in the period," Mike said, skating backward. "You can have me then."

Henry fussed a minute longer. But then he stepped carefully off the ice, and play resumed.

Mercifully, the last four were played at the other end of the ice.  Somehow the fight had lit a fire under his guys. They skated like  demons, which led to an ugly goal by Trevi in front of the net with less  than thirty seconds left in the period.