20. Tate

It’s the third period. We have four minutes left and Spike Adams, our resident pest, got a little too pesky. He’s in the box. I’m on the ice for the penalty kill. We have forty-two seconds left to kill this. Coach breaks up Nash and Crew on penalty kills because it’s where Nash excels and Crew doesn’t, so Nash is on the ice with me.

We’ve managed to clear the puck twice. Collingwood blocked a shot, but it was a close one and to be honest, the post did most of the work. We need to keep this clean and simple because we’re only ahead by one goal. If San Diego scores on this, we’re tied and there’s not much time left to change that in regulation.

San Diego”s star forward gets a pass, but Nash is on him, making his view of the net impossible. He winds up like he”s going to shoot it anyway, but I notice his eyes through his visor dart left. I remember this play from the game tape we were watching in practice. He”s gonna fake a shot on goal and slide the puck over to his wingman. I leave my position guarding the left winger so I can double-team the guy on the right wing with my teammate Landon Casco.

“What the fuck you doing?” Landon asks when I get there, but I don’t have time to remind him because the puck is sailing right across the ice. Right toward us. Toward me.

“Go!” Landon bellows and gives me a little shove. I skate up, managing to get to it a millisecond before the San Diego winger.

The crowd roars. The Quake bench is on its feet, but they’re all a blur as my thighs pump, moving me down the ice at a blinding pace. Toward their goal and their panicked goalie. I’m alone. It’s a breakaway.

But I can’t score. I can’t inch closer to my dad’s record. I can’t bring that level of attention into my life right now. I can’t…

My sister’s voice echoes in my ears.

You’re a Garrison. We don’t fail. Especially not on purpose.

Tenley is right. My brain may think that the logical thing to do is whiff the shot. Purposely shoot wide or otherwise fuck it up, and maybe it is the only way to keep my secrets, but… I’m a Garrison. I was born to win.

My stick rears back, my eyes hone in on the narrow space between the goalie”s leg pads, and I shoot. The puck sails hard and fast, right through his five-hole with such force the back of the net whooshes out so far even I can see it.

The crowd is deafening. I glide around the net, stick in the air in victory, and let out a howl of celebration. People bang the glass. The Quake bench all pile on me as I skate over, slapping my back and tapping my helmet, screaming celebratory words into my ears.

I hop over the boards. Coach Braddock walks up behind me as I sit down and grabs me by both shoulders. He leans in. “I knew it.”

I glance up at him and he grins and winks before I turn my focus back to the ice. Everyone is looking up at the Jumbotron as the refs get ready to set the face-off at center ice. The screen is showing Uncle Devin’s face where he sits in the press box. He’s grinning and he turns his phone toward the screen. It’s a video chat and my dad’s face is there, grinning wildly. I can see the pride. So can everyone else. I give the screen a thumbs up as best I can with my gloves on.

Then I look away and focus my eyes on my skates to rein in the emotions running through me. I still have a game to finish and consequences to deal with after this. I am not going to back down on breaking this record, so I need to tell everyone about Dylan ASAP.