Underneath It All (Storm Series)

by Carr, Cassandra

  “I missed this,” Sebastian admitted as he lobbed a pass to Rob.

  “Me too.”

  “Hey, how about you never get hurt again?”

  “From your mouth to the hockey gods’ ears.”

  Sebastian laughed. “Seriously, though, bud, I’m glad you’re back.”

  “So am I, dude. So am I.”

  Later, as Rob pulled on the various pieces of his uniform before finally settling his jersey over his head, he began to think about that night’s opponent. At first, Jon had been hesitant to allow Rob back in a game against Boston, a team known for its toughness, but Rob had argued doing so would be a good test of his shoulder. Jon had relented but had issued a warning similar to Alaina’s, minus the threat of no sex. Rob couldn’t even picture his coach having sex and shuddered.

  The game, you moron. Focus on the game.

  He sat in his stall, his hands clasped together, forearms resting on his thighs, and closed his eyes. Rick had already told him in no uncertain terms he’d take care of any fighting that needed to be done, but the idea of turtling if he was challenged didn’t sit well with Rob. Leaning his head from side to side, he cracked his neck, his eyes still closed. He pictured the different forwards, and then the opposing defensemen, before turning his attention to the goaltender.

  He was still inside his own head when the air in the room changed. Jon had arrived. Rob’s eyes popped open.

  “Okay, fellas, this isn’t going to be easy,” Jon warned them. Rob was aware the team had the tendency to let its collective attention wander at times and was glad he was back to help corral the energy of the guys. “Boston’s on a three-game winning streak, and they chased the starting goaltender for New Jersey after he let in four goals on six shots. They won 7-1 last night.” Fixing his icy stare at different points around the room, he continued, “These guys are feeling pretty good about themselves. What say we change that?”

  The guys roared and rose from their seats for the traditional pre-game huddle. After that was completed they stepped back and Jon pointed at Rob.

  “I know, I know. I got the message, coach.”

  “In any case, let me say this. You fight tonight without a damn fucking good reason and I’ll bench you. Clear?”

  Rob wasn’t the team’s enforcer. Rick filled that role quite competently, but especially against certain teams, Rob had a harder time keeping out of trouble. Boston was one of those teams, though Rob had every intention of being a good boy tonight.

  As the time to face-off drew closer, Rob’s right leg began to bounce, until finally, he got up and did laps around the hallway outside the locker room.

  One of the guys from the broadcast team who normally did the on-ice and between-periods interviews gave him a wave. “Good luck out there. Glad to see you back.”

  Other than that, the man left Rob alone and he was grateful. The guy had been a player himself not too many years ago and probably understood how Rob was about crawling out of his skin by now.

  Players began to pour from the locker room, and Ben took up his usual stance to bump gloves with each man as he went by. Rob took up a place next to him and did the same. Then the team skated out onto the ice for warm-ups. He immediately zeroed in on Marion Zenon, Boston’s resident pest and the mirror image of Rob’s role on the Storm. They acknowledged each other with barely concealed revulsion as they skated past each other.

  Then Rob grinned. I love this shit.

  When warm-ups were over, Rob and the rest of the team went back to the locker room for any minor adjustments to equipment or uniforms that were needed before lining up once again to await their turn to emerge from the tunnel. This year’s “pump up the crowd” music and video began to play, and the fans, who had been relatively quiet during warm-ups, began to stomp their feet and chant, “Storm. Storm. Storm.” Rob soaked the atmosphere all in, closing his eyes for a second to thank whoever was up in the heavens for him getting healthy and back on the ice.

  As the video and music played on, Brendan led the team onto the ice, and they took a few laps in the relative dark as the opening montage wound down. Then Rob and the others not slated to start the game glided to the bench and remained standing for the national anthems, removing their helmets and depositing them on the end of their sticks. Buffalo, due to its proximity to Canada, was one of few cities in the NHL who did both the American and Canadian anthems no matter who was playing.

  When the anthems finally ended, Rob let out a whoop, which was echoed up and down the bench. Yeah, he was back.

  Rick elbowed him. “Feels good, eh?”

  “Totally fucking awesome, dude. I never wanna do that again.” And with his contract with the Storm up after next year and heading into unrestricted free agency, he had another reason to pray to stay healthy.

  Ben’s line started the game against Boston’s top line, and though Ben won the face-off, Boston’s top defensive forward swooped in and stole the puck from Nikolai. The Russian swore loudly—in English, the universal language of cussing—and gave chase. He took the puck back and quickly shoveled it to Ben, who passed to Sebastian, who was streaking down the right wing.

  The entire team rose to their feet, straining to see over each other. As Sebastian was being hauled down from behind, he got a shot off, and Rob shook his head in amazement. He’d never admit this to his friend’s face, but Sebastian was a pretty freaking-great hockey player.

  Sebastian and the Boston defender went into the boards together, but Sebastian sprang back up immediately. A few seconds later, Boston’s goaltender had frozen the puck and it was time for a line change. Rob sat once more, shaking his legs out. He didn’t expect to get more than six or seven minutes of playing time tonight, and he’d need to be careful to make sure his muscles didn’t grow cold and cramp up. Grabbing the bottle of bright green Gatorade in front of him, Rob shot some into his mouth. He wasn’t huge on the stuff, but considering he wasn’t in top game shape, it wasn’t a bad idea to bulk up on the electrolytes.

  The second line, including the replacement rook, took the ice and Ben’s line sat. Sebastian leaned forward, grinning at Rob, who sent his own grin back.

  “Nothing better than this,” Sebastian called down the bench.

  “Nothing.”

  Soon the third line spilled onto the ice, and Rob was pretty much vibrating.

  “Calm down, man,” Rick told him. “Or you’re gonna go apeshit when you get out on the ice.”

  Rob glanced over at the man. “I know, I know. And no fighting. I remember.”

  “No matter what that asswipe says to you, skate away. Let me handle him.” Rick smiled, but the expression was pure evil. “I think he’s scared of me. And if not, he will be.”

  “Any sane man would be.”

  Rick made what Rob referred to as his “crazy face,” and Rob laughed.

  A few seconds later Jon barked out “Mantell line.”

  That was his cue. Phil Mantell, an older player probably retiring after this year, was the center of the fourth line. Rob zeroed in on the left winger from the third line, since in hockey they’d change on the fly. The guy peeled off when the puck went into the offensive zone and sped toward Rob, signaling with his glove. When the guy got within a few feet, Rob jumped over the boards and charged to the opposite side of the ice, where the Boston defenseman was trying to corral a rolling puck to backhand it down the ice.

  Rob had other ideas. Pressing his body into the boards, he blocked the clearing attempt. The defenseman was caught flat-footed as Rob stepped neatly around him and went to the net. He didn’t have a good angle, though, and passed back to the point, where their star Finnish defenseman Fredrik took a shot. Rob’s head pivoted as if on a swivel as the puck flew toward Boston’s net. At the last moment, the Boston goaltender was finally able to push Rick’s huge body out of the way and threw his catching glove out, snagging the puck from the air.

  As they lined up for the ensuing face-off, Fredrik glided by him. “Hell of a first play, man
.”

  “Thanks.” Rob wiped the sweat from his brow with his glove and got into his stance.

  Phil won the face-off back to Rick, who promptly lost the puck in his feet. Rob snorted and went over to help him out, but with all the bodies jostling and sticks poking at the puck, he couldn’t get far, so he settled for yelling at the guys in the scrum that he was behind them and open for a pass.

  Unfortunately, the Boston forward who was checking Rick fished out the puck and sent it to their left wing, who Rob had forgotten to cover. “Shit!”

  A two-on-one ensued with Boston’s left winger and center against Fredrik, who hadn’t moved up on the play. Fredrik’s gaze darted back and forth between the two men and Rob was sure Brendan was similarly tracking them. When they reached the face-off dots, Fredrik dropped to the ice, using his body’s length and his stick’s reach to take away almost ten feet of passing area. Some players might’ve been able to flip the puck over him, but not these guys. They were fourth-liners too. The puck slid to the corner, where Rob pounced on it and passed to Sebastian fresh off the bench. Huffing and puffing, Rob busted his ass so Nikolai could get on the ice in place of him. He dropped on the hard metal seat and pulled air into starving lungs.

  “You okay, man?” Rick asked.

  Rob raised his hand for a towel and one of the equipment guys promptly handed him one. “Oh yeah. Lotta excitement for the first time out though.”

  “Stick with me, kid.”

  Snorting, Rob pushed his linemate. “Whatever, kid.”

  Boston was assessed a penalty, putting the Storm on the power play. Rob was usually used on the second power play unit to screen and generally annoy the goaltender, but Jon had already told him he wasn’t planning on putting him in tonight, so Rob sat back and watched the first power play, which was a thing of beauty, chugging along at third in the league in efficiency last Rob had looked a week or two ago.

  Fredrik and Nikolai played the points, and Fredrik blasted a slapshot. Ben, in his usual area a few feet in front of the goaltender, leapt straight up and the puck careened underneath him and in the net. Boston’s goaltender had no chance. There was no way he could see the shot with Ben in front of him, and the man hadn’t even reacted.

  The Storm bench erupted, the guys jumping up and high-fiving each other. The men out on the ice did their customary skate-by glove-tap, and then the regular second line skated out onto the ice, since the goal had negated the power play.

  Momentum shifted back and forth, and despite some good efforts on the part of Boston’s players, Rob let their insults and shoves roll off his back. He’d promised not to start anything, and he wouldn’t unless he had no other choice. Like if some dickhead hit Seb from behind like earlier in the year. Then Rob couldn’t be held responsible for his actions.

  The period ended with the Storm still up by one goal. Jon briefly barked some instructions, and then the guys relaxed and waited for the second period to begin. Berating himself but nonetheless not stopping, Rob snuck into the auxiliary dressing room, where their street clothes were kept, and grabbed his phone. He was curious about what Alaina thought of the first period.

  Duh, you idiot. She knows you’re playing. She’s not gonna be sending texts.

  But he unlocked his phone anyway, and his face broke out into a grin. Wait, this text was from over an hour ago. He read and grinned again.

  Alaina: Decided to come to the game after all. Becca’s with me. Be safe. I love you.

  Quickly checking his surroundings, he typed, Not supposed to be on my phone but needed to see if you were watching. I’ll look for you guys. I love you too, babe.

  When the team went out on the ice for the second period, Rob scanned the area where the families sat, not sure exactly where his tickets were. Then he spied Alaina, grinning and giving him a surreptitious wave like she was afraid he’d get in trouble. Rob grinned, sending her a quick salute, then finished his lap before seating himself on the bench.

  He’d had two regular shifts in the first and one on the penalty kill. If this kept up, he’d be down to about five minutes ice time. Less than he’d like, but Jon was not one to challenge on ice time. He’d nail your ass to the bench for sure.

  Rob’s shifts in the second were less eventful, though he ended up taking three on the penalty kill, as the Storm took successive penalties. Jon was mumbling and swearing behind the bench, pacing like a caged tiger. When the Storm took a penalty while they were killing another, leaving them down in a five-on-three situation, Jon threw his lineup on the floor of the bench in disgust. “Next asshole who takes a stupid penalty bag skates tomorrow.”

  A general shiver rippled down the bench. Bag skating basically meant a player skated until he puked. Even the idea of it was a pretty effective punishment as far as Rob was concerned, and in his present shape he’d be going down before most of the other guys. Then it became a matter of principle. First, to set a good example for his teammates as their assistant captain, and next, to not embarrass himself by getting bag skated the day after coming back from a long-term injury.

  The period ended with the teams tied, and Rob’s ears blistered as Jon screamed. You never got used to Jon’s temper, no matter how long the man had been your coach. He wasn’t like some other coaches in the league who would single guys out for a dress down. When he was mad, the entire team incurred his wrath.

  When he left, Ben stood. “We need these two points, boys. Don’t fuck this up.” He sat once more, his glowering stare latching on to different people in the room.

  Most of those he focused on shifted in their seat then stared at the floor. As usual, Rob was impressed by how few words the captain needed to get his point across.

  When the third period rolled around, the team was ready for the game. Jon had decided to start the fourth line, probably to thumb his nose at the other lines, who were supposed to be the ones scoring the goals, not taking the stupid penalties they were.

  Rob was lined up against one of the French-Canadian guys, and used a phrase Sebastian had taught him to aggravate his compatriots. “Le cerveau il etait en option chez toi,” Rob told the man with a chuckle. He was basically saying the guy’s brain was optional equipment.

  The jibe worked. The guy pushed him as soon as the puck was dropped, and Rob lost his balance, landing on his ass. The whistle blew and the guy growled as he was escorted to the penalty box.

  That might be a personal record. Ten seconds on the ice and I’ve drawn a penalty. Go me.

  Knowing he wouldn’t be part of the power play tonight, Rob sat and reveled as the other guy apparently tossed insults at the fans who were pounding on the glass of the penalty box. Rob freaking loved Buffalo fans, crazy as they were. They deserved a championship, and he hoped he was around long enough to help them get one.

  He returned his attention to the offensive zone, where even though he couldn’t see Ben’s face, it was surely a mask of intense concentration as he waited for the puck drop. The face-off was a draw, but Ben never stopped fighting for possession, and after a good scrum right over the face-off circle, the puck squirted back to Seb, who one-timed it past the goaltender. He turned and pointed at Rob, who grinned and sent up another yell.

  Looking over, he saw Becca and Alaina jumping up and down like lunatics. Alaina had learned a lot about the game in the months she’d been with him, but he wondered if they truly understood what had happened.

  That assist would never show up in the record books, but drawing guys into dumb penalties was one reason that beat writer had dubbed him the “little ball of hate.” He was fine with his role. Maybe he’d explain his silent assist to them after the game. For now, it was time to make sure the team held on for the win.

  Sebastian skated by. “Assist to you, dude.”

  The team did manage to eke out the win, and Rob was about to duck into the locker room when he felt a hand on his sleeve. “Mind an interview?”

  Rob turned toward the team’s sportscaster whom he’d spoken to earlier and n
odded, mopping off his face and hair as best he could. He wasn’t especially vain when he was playing, but he’d always thought it was kind of gross when guys were dripping all over the camera during interviews.

  As the light on top of the camera lit and seconds later the red light did the same, Rob adjusted to the change and focused on the sportscaster, who said, “Thanks for speaking with us.”

  “No problem.” Interviews had a lot of standard answers, though Rob tried to make things more entertaining without overstepping his bounds.

  “First of all, how’s the shoulder?”

  “Totally fine. No pain, no stiffness. We’ll see how everything feels tomorrow, but I expect to play on Saturday night.”

  “Great to hear. What was it like being back out on the ice again?”

  Rob smiled and glanced at the camera. “Like a dream, only I wasn’t walking into high school naked and unprepared for a final.”

  The sportscaster barked out a laugh. “You can always be counted on to keep things interesting, Rob. Thanks for the time.” The red light went off then the light on top of the camera shortly thereafter. “One of these days, Robbie, you’re gonna say something, and I’ll be standing here with my mouth open like a fish.”

  “That’s the plan. See you later, Maysie.”

  He wandered into the locker room. A few minutes later, the room was opened to the press. Though Rob hoped like hell Alaina would wait for him, he had an obligation as one of the team’s spokespeople to be available to the media, so besides pulling off his sweaty jersey and shoulder pads, he didn’t even bother to undress further.

  After giving the requisite sound bites, he finally excused himself, swinging by his phone on the way to the showers. Alaina had texted saying Jaela, who’d actually come to a game, something she didn’t do often now that she and Ben had a child, had spotted them and escorted Alaina and Becca to the player’s lounge. Rob tossed the phone back into the locker then showered and dressed at breakneck speed. If he knew his teammates, at least one of them was flirting with Alaina. Fortunately for everyone, most of them respected him enough to keep their interactions to some harmless banter, as long as that ass who he’d nearly punched the last time Alaina had been in the player’s lounge wasn’t around. He didn’t know what Becca looked like, but if she was pretty, it would only compound the problem.