Chapter Twenty

Isit on the bench, knee bouncing as I try to focus on what we are about to do and not how worried I am about my wife. I’m not so sure she’ll make it in time for the game, which could mean she’s late for her performance. Licking my lips, I check my gear once more. This is it. This is the game we’ve waited for our entire careers. I can’t make a show of it tonight, not with my teammates depending on me.

“Can you get my jersey out of my pants?” Evan asks, turning around so I can help him. He’s already chased his own tail around in full padding three or four times before asking for help, so I take mercy on him and yank it into its proper position. He cracks his neck and checks his gear again before making eye contact with me. “She’ll make it. She wouldn’t miss this for the world, okay?”

I nod, letting the noise of the locker room lull me into a better mental space. Finchley called and told me everything worked out before she got on the plane, but she should have landed and arrived at the arena by now. There were no delays, so I can’t fathom where she is.

The door swings open and Coach Pratt enters, grinning ear to ear. “Are we ready boys?”

Evan pats my back in a show of support. I have to trust that Finchley is fine and get on the ice.

Our usual entry music blasts over the speakers and the crowd is going crazy. If we lose tonight, it’s over. We’re tied with Atlanta in a best of seven games series—three wins each—and it’s down to the last. Tension forces my muscles to ache, but once I’m on the ice I know I’ll ease up.

We’re in the tunnel, ready to head out when a ring of fire explodes at the opening. My heart eases. My girl is here, and she’s lighting up our entry like no one else can. The announcer can barely be heard over the roar of the crowd.

“Please welcome to the ice, your Denver Dragons!” The announcer gets people going even more, and I have to nudge Calloway onto the ice because he doesn’t hear his name. Once we’re all out and loosened up, we skate by Evan and tap his pads for the last game of the season. When it’s my turn, I tap his leg pads with my stick but pause to yank his head to mine. Our helmets touch at the forehead and I pull him into a tight hug.

“This is it,” I tell him.

“Make it a good one,” he says, patting my back.

I release him and take my place in wing, ready to bring the cup home to our Denver family. Sullivan loses the drop but manages to regain control of the puck with a slick maneuver that surprises even me. Our defense is tight, ready for anything that comes their way, so when Atlanta steals the puck again, Calloway is ready with a solid block, sending the puck sailing back to Baros. In a blink, it’s mine and I break away, passing to Forshtay.

We go back and forth like this for several minutes before one of Atlanta’s wingers makes a clean shot Calloway doesn’t see coming. The crowd boos and shouts down Atlanta but Evan is still beating himself up over the missed shot. I skate by and tap his leg pads again, reminding him it’s still early. We have plenty of wiggle room. The play has been so fast, I haven’t had a second to glance up at the lounge to see if Finchley or April are up there.

Just before the period ends, Turner scores and we go into our first intermission tied with Atlanta. Down in the locker room, Coach lifts our spirits as much as possible. We’re all equal parts excited and anxious with two periods still to go before anyone can claim that cup.

I’m refilling my water bottle when someone knocks on the locker room door. Sullivan opens it wide and lets Finchley in, fresh faced after her performance. There are a lot of things I notice about my wife from this distance, not the least of which is what a lash she is, but my eyes zero in on one thing.

She’s wearing my jersey.

I meet her halfway and fold her into my embrace. Certainly, I smell like a pigpen, but she doesn’t care. She never did.

“Sorry I didn’t get back in time to see you before the game,” she whispers and kisses my cheek.

“Doesn’t matter, darling. You’re here, and by the sound of the crowd earlier, I’d say they loved your performance.”

“It was insane. I could hardly hear myself think, but they’re excited for you guys, not me. They are going crazy out there even now.”

The guys have gathered around with only a few minutes left on our break.

“Everything work out okay?” Evan asks, wiping his brow with a Dragons towel.

“Mostly, yes. It’s all good. You guys focus on winning and nothing else, okay?” She’s answering Evan but looking at me. Her eyes don’t lie. She’s happy, and that’s enough for me.

“All right men, let’s pull ahead this period. Give us some wiggle room,” Coach Pratt says, motioning for Finchley to get her behind back to the lounge and out of his way. She kisses my cheek and heads out, giving me a full view of what she looks like walking away with my name plastered across her shoulders. The number nine has never looked so good, and I grin ear to ear until Evan nudges me back to reality.

Back in the tunnel, we catch the end of the Zamboni as a gaggle of children exit the other side of the ice. I can’t say what they did during the period intermission, but they all have stuffed dragons they squeeze like they’re their new favorite toys. We’re called out again and step on the ice, warming up for the next twenty minute period. I know a lot of the guys on Atlanta’s team, even played with one of them back in my early days as a Dragon, and I know they want this win as much as we do.

The period begins with Sullivan scoring almost immediately, but the goal is called into question. Deliberation results in a goal, so we’re up by one. Things move back and forth with no one scoring again until the end of the third period, tying us again. Our nerves are shot and frustrations run high. Baros is sitting in the sin bin doing time for Calloway, who didn’t take kindly to someone sliding into his goal. It was a small fight, but it still earned Evan a penalty. I’ve covered more ice this period than I have in years, and I’m getting tired with still another period left to go and no clear favorite yet.

We close out the period, reinvigorate ourselves as best we can during the second intermission, then head out again. Right at the drop, one of their players trips me up and skates off with my puck. My blood is boiling, but I manage to control myself without smashing the guy into the wall. Lincoln Gray doesn’t take too kindly to the offense, though, and nails him, earning himself a penalty for slashing. That’s going to get him chewed out by Coach, especially now that Atlanta has a power play in the third period.

Two minutes.

We can survive two minutes one player down.

Forshtay hits the ice while Turner heads to the bench. Almost immediately, he gets control of the puck and it’s sailing towards me. I’m in a perfect position to score but their goaltender is prepared, so I take it around the back of the goal, fake one direction so Forshtay and Sullivan can occupy our opponent, then dart the other direction, sneak around the goaltender’s left side, and sneak it in nice and neat.

Forshtay and Sullivan cheer and shove me around a little, but it doesn’t last long. Atlanta scores in the next minute, keeping us tied. We can’t seem to get ahead and stay there, so while I trade out with another Dragon, I study them from the bench, noting their weakest players and where I can exploit those weaknesses. It’s what we do, but there’s something about knowing my wife and mum are up there watching, cheering for us, that makes me even more determined to win this thing.

By the end of the third period, we’re still tied and head into seven minute overtime, three on three with a goalie in each crease. I hate overtime. I’m already exhausted, bloodied, bruised, and ready to take my wife home, but not without that cup. I didn’t spend ten years busting my rear end to make a holy show of things tonight.

I don’t expect Coach to put me in, if I’m honest. I figure one of the younger guys who still have a lot of steam left in them, but I’m out on the ice with the rest of the first string, my brothers in this fight. It’s seven minutes of unadulterated misery with a pause for fighting—leave it to Baros to pick a fight with a guy twice his size and still teach him a lesson—and us down to two on three. It’s a bloody miracle when we manage to keep Atlanta from scoring, but with one down we don’t either.

Of all the games to end in a shoot out, the blasted final game of the championship is not the one I want. If we tie the shootout, it’s down to sudden death.

“You ready Doyle?” Sullivan asks.

“Ready for what?” I ask, twisting my mouth guard in my teeth like a kid while I sit, tossing my stick back and forth between my knees. I don’t do shootouts. Coach sets up the younguns for that, so I’m settling into my place on the bench where I belong.

“What do you mean for what? It’s you, me, and Forshtay.”

I blink a few times. “What do you mean by you, me, and Forshtay? In the bloody shootout? Are you crazy?”

“Nope. I’ve been watching all night. We’re the best chance at locking this thing down with that goalie,” he says, pointing to the man I’ve been trying to sneak pucks past all night. I think our captain has taken one too many shots to the head, but he’s the boss so rather than fight, I shrug and pray that this thing doesn’t come down to me.

Atlanta wins the coin toss so they send out their best and brightest. The kid is fast, moves like a superhero with an uncanny ability to spin out of the way at the last minute. But he’s got nothing on Evan, who deflects a solid shot like it’s child’s play. Sullivan skates out and gets comfortable, then attacks Atlanta’s goaltender. It crosses the red line and the buzzer sounds, but it’s drowned out by the crowd screaming and chanting our captain’s name.

I swallow and close my eyes. Please, please, do not let Atlanta score.

I open my eyes just as their player fakes right then twists left and tucks the puck in the goal at Evan’s weaker side. It grazed his glove, so close.

Forshtay is on the ice now. Kid’s got moves for days and a slapshot that can kill a man. Fortunately, the goalie underestimates him and finds himself dejected as the puck crosses the red line in a blur. Whew. A nervous sweat breaks on my forehead as we watch Atlanta’s third player set himself up. Evan digs deeper into his crease.

“Come on, friend,” I whisper. If he blocks this shot, it’s over. We win. We watch as the player sets up, helpless from our bench, all of us clenching our jaws in anticipation. He shoots, Evan blocks it but it’s a nanosecond too late and the player scores.

Bloody hades. We’re tied two to two and it’s down to me. The phrase why me has occurred to me more than once in my life, but never more so than it does in this moment. My entire team looks at me as if I hold the key to all the riches in the world. I want to back out, trade out with someone better than me, but it’s too late. Coach shoves me out onto the ice and Sullivan shouts something to me, but I don’t hear him. The crowd is too loud.

My eyes drift up to the lounge where the ladies and the rest of our families stand, cheering. Finchley is holding Mum’s hand, both of them smiling down at me. I take a deep breath and try to center myself. Ten years have come to this, one last shot between me and the thing I’ve wanted since I started playing for the Dragons.

I lick my lips and twirl my stick before sending up a prayer that I won’t let my team down. The puck seems to stare back up at me, taunting me, so I cover it and pull it to me. The ice sings beneath my skates, reminding me of why I love this game. Sheer desperation pushes me forward, closer and closer to the goal even while I’m trying to decide how I want to shoot. For a blink, I make eye contact with the goalie. He’s terrified. It’s all on him, too. One of us is about to have a horrible night.

He compensates right to cover where I’m headed. I pull back for a slap shot, but just before I get a piece of the puck, I slow down and cup it, dance it to the left on the edge of the stick blade, and hurl it into the net over his left shoulder. My heart races so fast, I don’t see it go in, don’t realize I’ve scored until the red light flashes and the crowd loses control.

Red stuffed dragons assault me from all sides as they rain down from the crowd. My team surrounds me and we’re all in shock. The announcer’s booming voice echoes in the arena, announcing the Denver Dragons as the Patton Cup winners.

And I still can’t breathe. All I can do is stare dumbfounded at the net filled with a dejected heap of Atlanta goaltender. I wanna feel bad for the kid, but I’m too bloody happy I busted his chops to let the emotion take over.

We can barely skate for all the dragons piling around us, but after a few minutes the assault slows and the arena crew clears a path for Sullivan to accept the cup. It’s brought onto the ice in all of its shining glory, finally at home in Denver. Captain Sullivan says something to the official handing it to him, but it’s impossible to hear over the crowd. Once it’s in his hands, Sullivan takes it for a skate around the rink, holding it high for our fans to see. Before long, we’re all so caught up in the insanity, we don’t notice our families joining us on the ice until Freya all but bulldozes Baros.

I scan the ice, searching for my wife and mum.

“Over there!” Evan yells, yanking my jersey. Our ladies are together, doing their best to cross the ice without tripping over stuffed animals. Evan grabs Greer around the waist and spins her around, which is quite a feat in all his padding. When he goes in for a kiss, I divert my attention to my gorgeous wife.

But Mum tackles me first.

I hug her tight, thankful she will be moving back close to me again. “My sweet boy, you did it! I always knew you would!”

“Thank you, Mum,” I whisper, squeezing her one more time before she releases me into Finchley’s arms.

“You did it, Ace!” She beams and latches on to me, pressing her lips to mine in a sweet, innocent kiss. “I’m so proud of you!”

I steal a few more kisses and skate around with them, but something nags at me. Is this it? Is this the culmination of my career, or should I try to do this one more time before hanging up my cleats and taking the training coach position?

“What do you think I should do from here?” I ask, staring down at Finchley. Mum has wandered off to pinch cheeks, leaving us alone for a moment.

“What do you mean? Aren’t we going to the tavern to celebrate with the others?” she asks, smile still so wide, it crinkles her eyes.

“Yes, love. I meant after that? What do I do with the rest of my life?”

Finchley chuckles and shakes her head. “Hey, from what I saw out there tonight, you’re nowhere near ready to retire. Besides, I kinda like the idea of wearing my husband’s jersey.” Her hands settle on her hips and the decision is made. I want to see my wife wear my jersey, too. I’ll give it another year, then retire. Or not. We’ll see what happens.

In the meantime, I intend to fill that cup with slime and dump it on someone’s head. “We never did pull our prank together. Wanna help me fill that thing with slime and douse Coach?”

“I don’t know,” she says, tapping a finger to her chin. “Is it wise to prank your coach?”

I shrug. “Dunno, never tried it. You with me, Birdie?”

She smiles and pushes up on her toes to kiss my cheek. “Always, Ace. I’m with you.”