“That’s not fair, Sam.”
“I know.”
Of course he did, and he wasn’t sorry.
“You don’t have to stay the whole game,” he continued. “If you or Conner gets tired, you can leave. It’s just this one time, Autumn. I wouldn’t ask, but Conner real y wants to see me put the big hurt on Sedin.”
“Conner doesn’t like violence.”
“It’s not violence. It’s hockey.”
Right. She was going to give him what he wanted this time, but she real y didn’t want to, and she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “What do I get?”
There was a pause, then he asked, his voice a d
eep rasp in her ear, “What do you want, honey?”
She rol ed her eyes. “I want you to stop pushing me. You’re spoiled and used to everyone’s doing things your way. I don’t work for you, and I’m not one of your women. My life does not revolve around your wants, needs, and desires.”
“Autumn,” he said through a sigh, “of al the women on the planet, I certainly know that your life does not revolve around my desires.”
“Welcome to the Jungle” pounded the air inside the Key Arena in downtown Seattle. Two minutes into the second period, the score was even with two goals apiece. Walker and Vancouver player, Henrik Sedin, faced off behind the Chinooks’ blue line. The puck dropped, the music stopped, and the sound of Axl Rose was replaced by the slap of sticks on ice.
Sam sat on the bench and squirted water into his mouth. He spit between his feet and wiped the corner of his lips with the back of his hand.
“Henrik’s creating space and crowding the crease,” Mark Bressler said from behind Sam. “Tie him up and get him off Marty’s long side.”
Sam nodded, his eyes fol owing the action on ice. The Canucks had speed in their front line, but their blue line wasn’t as fast. If the Chinooks kept the pressure on the defense and Luongo, they should give them a pretty good shel acking.
Beside him, Andre chirped at Burrows as he skated past the bench, “You’re next, nutless.”
Sam laughed and slid his gaze to the left corner behind the goal and landed on Autumn’s pink bal cap. It was like Autumn was incognito. Hat on, col ar of her coat up, like she was a double agent and didn’t want anyone to recognize her. He guessed he was a little surprised that she wasn’t wearing that Pittsburgh jersey just to piss him off.
Sam felt a hand on his back, and he rose and shoved his mouth guard against his teeth. He and Vlad scissored over the wal , and he skated to the far side.
Vancouver’s Kesler brought the puck down ice, dangling the vulcanized rubber within the blade of his stick. Sam kept his gaze on Kesler’s face, reading him, and the second he looked down, Sam hip checked him against the boards. The Plexiglas rattled as he dug at the puck with the curved blade of his own stick. “You must love getting your ass handed to you,” he said as he slashed and hacked.
“Blow me, LeClaire.”
“You first, chicken shit.” He shot the puck along the al ey to Daniel and took off toward the red line. The whistle blew, and the ref cal ed offside. He glanced at Conner and Autumn. His son waved a foam finger at him, and his heart swel ed. The shadow of Autumn’s cap hid her eyes and touched the bow of her lips. He was grateful that, despite her obvious dislike of him and hockey, she’d brought Conner. He circled back to the goal line and checked the tape on his stick. He real y couldn’t ask for a better mother for his son, and as he passed Kesler, he bumped him with his shoulder. “My bal s dangle better than you,” he said.
“Your bal s dangle ’cause you’re an old man.”
Sam smiled. He remembered when he’d been twenty-five and cocky. Hel , he was stil a little cocky sometimes. “Watch yourself, dipshit. The season is young, and the ice is slick.”
He stood near the goal line, shutting down firing lanes and waited. The puck dropped, Hendrik fed it back to Kesler, and from his right, Sam took a hard hit from Shane O’Brien that knocked him on his ass. He slid across the ice. His right shoulder slammed into the boards, and he heard the snap a split second before pain shot across his shoulder and down his arm. “Fuck.”
He tried to sit up and rol ed onto his right side. Stars flashed in front of his eyes, and the whistles blew. He shook off his glove and gritted his teeth.
“Son of a bitch!” The pain took his breath away, and he lay on his back and looked up at steel girders. This isn’t good, he thought. The arena was fil ed with the yel ing of thousands of Chinook fans, and through it al , the pain and shock and the noise, he heard Conner. He heard his son’s fearful wail, but that was impossible. The roar of the crowd was too loud. Then Daniel’s and Vlad’s faces crowded his vision, fol owed shortly by Bressler and head trainer, Scott Silverman.
“Where are you hurt?” Scott asked.
“Shoulder. My clavicle. I heard the snap.”
“Can you move your hands and feet?”
“Yeah.” He’d broken enough bones that he recognized the signs, and he wondered how long this break would keep him on the injured list. How long before he would meet with O’Brien on the ice and kick his ass. “Help me up.”