“So you’re going to come with Gavin to Alaska,” my dad says, drinking his coffee. He states it like it’s a matter of fact.
I raise an eyebrow at Connor, hoping he’ll agree without much convincing. “We could hide out up there,” I say. “Disappear into my cabin.”
“You have a cabin?” he asks.
“I do,” I say, taking a bite of my sandwich, which is loaded with Italian meats and cheeses on soft crusty bread. With my food still in my hand, I point at my father. “It’s technically his, but he refuses to move into it.”
“I told you,” Dad says. “Don’t waste your money on me.”
“Buying you a small house isn’t wasting my money,” I point out. “You leaving it empty, however,isa waste.”
“Bullshit.” He huffs then takes a bite of his meatball sub.
“Tell me about this house,” Connor says. He’s picking pickles off of his sandwich. I grab them and eat them knowing they’ll just sit untouched once tossed to the side on his plate. “Does it have a mattress on the floor?”
I toss a pickle slice at him that he dodges. “No.” I laugh and take another bite of my sandwich. “It has actual furniture in it. It’s nice. Small. Two bedrooms. One bath. But it has a magnificent view of the harbor through the kitchen window and the bedrooms look out at the mountains.”
“Sounds nice,” Connor says, then takes a bite of his sandwich. “I’d like to see it.”
“It’s not easy to get to,” I say. There’s excitement building in my chest. The thought of Connor spending the summer in Alaska with me, enjoying the quiet, the privacy, and the sights, has me damn near giddy. Plus, it’s about three thousand miles away from his father. I’m not sure if that’s enough distance, but it’s a start. “You’ll need to come up for at least a month to make the travel worth it.”
“Last I checked”—Connor takes a sip of his sparkling water—“we get two and a half months off. We could spend most of the offseason up there.”
“We could,” I agree, smiling at him.
“Jesus Christ!” my dad exclaims, shaking his head. “If you two don’t quit it, you’ll blow your cover before they hang those gold medals around your necks after you beat the brakes off Canada and win tomorrow night’s game.”
NINETEEN
Connor
This is what I imagine game seven of the Stanley Cup finals must feel like. The combination of excited and nervous energy in this arena practically makes the ice vibrate under my blades. With each shot either team takes on their opponent’s goal, with each and every hit us players level at each other, each time one of us steals the puck, the intensity grows like an overfilled balloon.
Unsurprisingly, this is the toughest game we’ve played at the Olympics. The Canadian team is giving us all they’ve got. Plus, they’ve somehow managed to make this feel like they have the home team advantage. The crowd, while immense and international, is still disproportionately filled with Canadian fans who are cheering loudly for their nation’s team, drowning out any voices of allegiance to us. They want those medals so badly. It’s a shame I’m about to deny them that pleasure.
Gavin is engaged in an intense wall battle for the puck with Alexander Tavish against the boards in Canada’s offensive zone. Thanks to Gavin’s size and his tenacity, Tavish loses control of the puck. With my speed, I swipe it before he can grab control of it again and send it across the ice to Max Franklin. He takes controland starts driving the puck down the lane towards goal. He’s blocked by one of their defenders but manages to send the puck to Nichols, who’s protecting the blue line nearby.
I’ve caught up with them, but I can see Tavish gaining on me in my periphery. Unfortunately for Tavish, he doesn’t see Gavin in his blind spot until it’s too late. Gavin trucks him as he tries to intercept the puck that Nichols passes me. Tavish barely got his stick on it, but it was enough to make Gavin’s hit a legal one and for play to continue.
When the puck lands perfectly on the tape of my stick, I don’t even bother to fake left or right to throw their goalie off his game. I have all the speed behind my shot right now and I send a rocket right down the center that slides straight through the space between their goalie’s knees before he can close the gap.
The horn blares and with that goal, I’ve made the score three to two with less than two minutes left to play.
Nichols is the first to throw his arms around me in celebration. I thank him for the assist, and he thumps my helmet with his glove before we’re both engulfed in a hug from Gavin.
“Hey, Marshal!” Tavish says as he skates by. “You never hug me like that when I score.”
“That’s because he’s usually in the penalty box,” Franklin says as he comes to join our celebration.
Tavish winks at us. “Don’t celebrate too hard.” He slowly skates off backwards. “There’s still plenty of time left for me to tie this up.”
“I’ll let Bouchard know you’re coming!” Gavin yells out to him.
He smiles at Gavin and flips him off, then turns around to skate to center ice for the face off.
On my way to center ice, I skate past our bench and grab a line of forearm bumps from my teammates while they pound the boards with their sticks. At the end of the line is Coach Chris with some encouraging words. “Way to get it done, Kennedy. Do you have enough gas in the tank to close this one out?”
“I’ve got it, Coach,” I say. It’s not so much gas in the tank as it ispure adrenaline. This game, this atmosphere, skating with Gavin on my line, I might never tire again.
