"You're gonna win," he says with absolute certainty. Then, unprompted and with the perfect, unselfconscious emotion of childhood, he shouts, "I LOVE YOU, DADDY!"
Three words that matter more than any headline, any contract, any trophy.
"I love you too, T-Rex. So much."
His face is pure sunshine, gap-toothed smile wide and unguarded and I can feel myself grinning like an idiot. Then there's movement behind him, and Jessica appears in the frame, her expression tightening when she sees me.
"Tyler, that's enough screen time," she says, her hand reaching for the phone. "Daddy needs to focus on his game, and you need to get ready for bed. We don't want to keep you up too late, do we?"
"But we were talking about the Hockey-Raptors!" he protests.
"I'm sure Logan can tell you the story tomorrow." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Say goodnight now."
"Goodnight, Daddy! Score a goal for me!"
Before I can respond, the screen goes dark. Jessica has ended the call.
I stare at the blank screen, the whiplash of emotions leaving me slightly disoriented. The pure high of Tyler's "I love you" colliding with the calculated interruption from Jessica—I close my eyes, holding onto the image of that Mini-me in his pajamas while my jaw clenches at Jessica's timing.
I tuck my phone away and stand, reaching for my shoulder pads. The ritual is complete. Tyler's voice echoes in my head—I LOVE YOU, DADDY!—driving out Jessica's passive-aggressive tone. I hold onto Tyler’s joy and let it center me as I get ready.
Three minutes left on the clock. Tie game. The Garden's sellout crowd erupts, desperate voices trying to will their team ahead. Boston's forwards are fresh off a line change, buzzing around our zone with the desperation of a team that knows what these two points mean in the standings.
I feel the familiar burn in my quads, the controlled edge of exhaustion that comes from twenty-one hard minutes of ice time. But underneath the fatigue runs something else—a current of clarity that's been there all night. Jessica's attempt to get in my head before the game failed. All I can hear is Tyler's voice: I LOVE YOU, DADDY!
Boston's top center cuts hard to the net, looking for a deflection. I angle my body, cutting off the passing lane without taking a penalty. The puck ricochets off my shin pad to the corner where Kovy wins the battle on the boards, muscling his man off the puck. His quick look up ice finds me already moving.
"GO!" he shouts, sliding the puck perfectly to my tape.
There's a seam. I see it open just for a second between Boston's forwards—a moment of hesitation in their backcheck. Pure instinct takes over. I'm not usually a guy who looks to carry the puck up the ice. I'm a stay-at-home defenseman, a shutdown guy. But something feels different tonight, has felt different these past weeks, and they’re giving me open ice, so I take it.
I accelerate through the neutral zone, surprising their defensemen who expect me to dump it in once I gain the red line. The first D-man overcommits, and I slip the puck between his legs, collecting it on the other side. Their second defenseman—Matthews, solid veteran—angles me toward the boards, butI protect the puck with my body, feeling his stick desperately trying to disrupt my hands.
The Boston crowd's roar deepens as I cut toward the center, their anxiety feeding something primal in me. I catch a glimpse of Benny driving the far post, drawing their goalie ever so slightly to off the goal post.
Matthews’ stick lifts mine for a split second, but the puck stays on my blade just long enough. I pull it to my backhand—a move I practice relentlessly but rarely attempt in games—and lift it high over the goalie's shoulder and catching glove. Top shelf - goal!
The goal judge’s red light shines. The crowd noise inverts, collapsing into the shocked silence that only comes when eighteen thousand hopeful fans are simultaneously gutted. There is nothing better than silencing 18,000 people in an instant. It feels incredible.
I barely register Benny crashing into me, his gloved fist pounding my helmet. "Holy fuck, Mac! Holy FUCK!"
More bodies pile on, Schmitty roaring something incomprehensible in my ear. I can't stop grinning. My heart hammers like it did when I scored my first goal, pumping adrenaline that makes the world sharper, brighter. There's nothing like this feeling—nothing that compares to a late go-ahead goal in a building this hostile.
Back at the bench, Coach grabs my shoulder pads, yanks me close. "Fucking beautiful, Mac. Now lock it down."
Every second of the final two minutes crawl by. Boston pulls their goalie with a minute left and they attack relentlessly. We collapse into our defensive shell, five bodies moving as one, clearing rebounds, blocking shooting lanes, but we can’t clear the zone. When the final horn sounds, my lungs are burning, sweat stinging my eyes.
My final superstition of the night is to stand on the ice at the entrance to the bench to give a fist bump and acknowledgement to each teammate as he steps off the ice. I have to be the last player on the ice.
Down the tunnel, the locker room explodes with noise. Schmitty's playlist blasts from the speakers—some EDM garbage that I'd normally hate but now feels like the perfect soundtrack. My hips move to dance involuntarily. Equipment guys hustle around, collecting jerseys, hanging gear to dry. Media will be allowed in soon, but for now, it's just us, basking in the collective high of a crucial road win.
"Mac!" Tuck shouts over the music. "That was some Gretzky shit!"
I laugh, peeling off my under armor. "Even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and then."
"Fuck that," Kovy says, grabbing a water bottle. "That was beautiful hockey."
Coach keeps the post-game talk brief. "Great win tonight, boys. Great effort. I couldn’t be more proud of how you’re controlling what you can control. Six straight wins. Keep building. Keep trusting each other." His eyes find mine. "Some of you are playing the best hockey of your careers right now. Let's keep it rolling in Philly."
