15. Theo

Theo

This game was not going well. We were down by two halfway through the second period, and now we were setting up for a faceoff in our defensive zone. Not ideal with their first offensive line on the ice; their right winger already had two goals tonight, and I had no doubt he was itching for a hat trick.

Easton was doing his damnedest to keep us alive, but we'd stupidly allowed too many scoring opportunities. That was especially bad when this team knew all of Easton's tricks and weaknesses.

"Easton is solid," Condit had told us earlier. "But we can't forget that he played for St. Louis for eight seasons before he came to Seattle. Most of the guys there now, they played with him, so they practiced on him. Which means they know how to get under his skin and get past him, and they're going to use that to their advantage."

I'd caught Yanni's eye a few times as he hung out by the bench in his gear and baseball cap. He was clearly stressed out and miserable, and I didn't think it was all because of his brother's injury. This was one of those games when we needed him. Putting Easton up against the team who'd traded him a season ago wasn't necessarily a recipe for disaster, but it wasn't anyone's idea of a good plan A.

Plan B was what we had to work with tonight, though, and it wasn't Yanni's fault or Easton's. They'd both feel like shit if we lost this game, so I was extra determined to unfuck things.

I took my position beside one of St. Louis's wingers. Abrahamsson lost the faceoff, but Grekov poke-checked the puck away from St. Louis's center. He passed it to Foster, and just like that, my line was breaking away, flying toward the offensive zone.

Two defensemen closed in on Foster, so he passed to Abrahamsson, who whizzed around another skater before sending a stretch pass to me.

I was at the blue line and fully intended to send the puck to Foster, who had set up at the edge of the crease. But right as I was about to pass it to him, he and one of the defensemen were trying to jostle each other out of the way, and Foster's stick broke.

He dropped it and skated toward the bench. Abrahamsson was coming around the back of the net.

I passed to Grekov to keep the puck moving. He passed it back to me. We cycled it a few times, and as Foster returned to the zone with a new stick in hand, I skated closer to the net, ready to pass to him or Abrahamsson so they could tip it in.

No lane. No room.

I passed to Rusanov. He passed to Grekov. Grekov passed to me.

Still no lane. Still no—

Wait. The goaltender had lost track of the puck. He was behind a dense screen of players from both teams, and he hadn't yet realized I had possession.

Abrahamsson and I locked eyes.

I wound back and shot the puck as hard as I could.

I fully expected Abrahamsson to tip it in, but one of the defensemen forced his stick up and out of the way.

Turned out it didn't matter:

Because the puck went in.

The red light came on.

For a split second, I was stunned. It… Had it really gone in?

I'd scored plenty of times in juniors and in the minors, but… had I just tallied my very first NAPH goal?

Abrahamsson, Foster, Rusanov, and Grekov all flew my way and tackle-hugged me against the glass.

"Nice one, kid!" Abrahamsson clapped my shoulder hard with his glove. "This is your first, isn't it?"

"Yeah!" I was laughing from excitement. "First one!"

Then we were skating by the bench for fist bumps with me leading the line for the first time ever. Didn't matter how many times I'd done this on my other teams—this was cooler than the moment I'd scored a game-winning goal in the playoffs in U16.

"Well done, Mathis!" Coach called out.

"Keep it up!" one of the other coaches said.

Our shift was over, so we came off the ice for a breather. As I stepped through the door, I met Christian's gaze.

He was hanging back a little, toolbelt on his hips and arms folded loosely across his hoodie, and…

Oh my God. That smile.

I was so overwhelmed by excitement that I almost—almost—grabbed him into a hug. And more than a hug.

The impulse to throw my arms around him and kiss him right there behind the bench spooked me. As I sat down and took a few gulps of water, my heart was pounding, and not just from adrenaline and excitement.

Holy shit. I have to remember not to do that.

I didn't know if I'd actually have done it. If I had really forgotten myself enough that I would've slipped up, or if it was just a momentary lapse—a pleasant but intrusive thought—that wouldn't have gone anywhere.

Either way, I reminded myself we couldn't do that. Not even if I scored a game-winning hat trick goal in overtime.

That wasn't to say we couldn't celebrate. We'd just do it when we got back to the hotel and I managed to sneak away from my room and into his.

Goose bumps sprang up under all my hockey gear. Would he be game for that?

I chanced a quick look over my shoulder. Christian must've sensed me looking at him, because he flicked his eyes toward me.

Aww, fuck me. That little smile was going to end me.

Hockey, Theo. Focus on hockey.

I faced the game again. We could still win this thing. Condit's line was out now, and they had St. Louis on their heels. If we could keep them in their own end, keep them away from Easton, and get two more pucks into the back of their net, we could beat them.

I tapped my heel rapidly, the skate blade scraping against the bench. I had my first goal tonight. I had something to celebrate with Christian once we got back to the hotel. No way in hell did I want to do this halfway. I wanted a win alongside that goal. I wanted the night to end on a good note for Yanni and Easton.

We've got this, Rainiers. Let's fucking win it.