The clock ticks down. Forty seconds, thirty seconds…
Vancouver dumps the puck in. It bounces off the boards, right into the slot, and it’s total chaos, bodies everywhere. Tanner drops into a butterfly, but he’s scrambling. He loses his stick. Three Kodiak players are crowding him, whacking away at the loose puck.
“Nooo,” I whisper, my heart pounding.
He makes a desperate, sprawling lunge. It’s an ugly, flailing cover-up that looks more like he’s tackling a fumble than making a save.
But thankfully, the horn sounds. Sasquatch win, 3-2.
On-screen, the guys celebrate, but I keep watching Tanner. He doesn’t throw his arms up or pump his fist in victory. Instead, he stays down on the ice for a second before slowly hauling himself to his feet. He pulls his mask off. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and he looks wrecked. Not triumphant, just relieved it’s over.
I know that feeling. The adrenaline crash when you know you played ugly but got the W. You don’t feel like a winner; you feel like a fraud who got away with one.
I fumble for my phone on the cushion beside me. My goddamn fingers feel like sausages. I try to open my texts, but the screen keeps swimming.
Gppd job.
Nope, not right. I delete it and then slowly and carefully tap out another message:
nice wun.
For fuck’s sake.
I don’t have spelling right now. Or proper control of my digits. I close my eyes for a second to clear my head.
When I open my eyes again, I don’t know how much time has passed, but the post-game show is over, and the TV’s showing some weird rerun of an old cop show.
Fuck it.
I hit the call button on his contact.
“Hello? Louis? What’s going on? It’s two o’clock in the morning!”
His voice is tight, but he sounds wide-awake.
“Hey,” I say. Or maybe I slur it a little. “You watching?”
“Am I watching what? Lou?” There’s rustling on the line, like he’s shifting the phone. “Hey, are you okay? Is something wrong? Where’s your family?”
“No, no. M’good. Famliss sleeepin.” I sink deeper into the couch cushions, smiling at the ceiling. Hearing his voice settles something inside me. “ Jus want’d t’say you did good.”
Tanner lets out a long sigh. “I was shaky, Lou. I was fighting it the whole time. That second goal was soft. I lost the post.”
“Doesn’ matter,” I say, and I mean it. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, and the coaches will have things to talk to him about, but tonight, he needs to feel good. “Doesn’ matter ifitw’s ugly. A win’s a win. You won.”
“I guess.” He sounds unconvinced. “I just... I know I could have done so much better. That last goal—”
“Nope.” I close my eyes. The drugs are pulling me under, a gentle tide washing over my brain. “Don’ do that. You saved th’ game, babe.”Shit. Was that something I was supposed to say?
Tanner sucks in a sharp breath.
“That was luck,” he argues.
“Doesn’ matter,” I insist again. “I’s proud watching you play tonight.”
The silence on the other end is heavy.
“You were?” he asks quietly.
