Barron Walsh tossesthe puck to Patrick McEllen. Montreal intercepts it. Number eighty-four turns to bring the puck to our zone, but Julian comes out of nowhere and steals it away. As if he were picking a pocket. It’s so damn smooth I almost shout.
He doesn’t keep the puck for long. As soon as it touches his stick, he flings it toward Etna. I hold my breath as the next three seconds go by in slow motion. Etna doesn’t stop the puck’s momentum. Instead, he hauls his stick back and smacks it toward the goal as soon as it’s in range.
The horn sounds and the red light flashes as the announcer screams, “GOAL!”
“Yeah!” I shout, raising my stick in the air as I skate into him. “Nice goal, Etna!”
He meets my eyes, wrapping an arm around me. His beaming grin is just so… perfect. Glowing. If I were a braver person, I’d kiss him right now. This is definitely a moment for a celebratory kiss if there ever was one.
Some day. Once we make this public, I’m going to kiss him for every success he makes and fuck who’s around to see it.
The rest of our teammates on the ice surround us too, hugging Etna and showing him support. Then we break apart.
Because we are who we are and it’s always been a routine for our little group of friends on the team, Etna skates to the other end of the ice to hug it out with Horny, too. When he’s done, he comes back and hits his fist against our teammates’ before retaking his position on the ice.
The puck drops and Morgan Rivera hits the puck first. It slides through the ref’s legs and I catch it, ready to haul it back toward our zone so I can see where everyone is. There’s no good opening, so I take a chance and shoot it toward Julian.
Montreal number eight intercepts and circles back around trying to get it to our zone. Etna and Hilt on defense do a good job of getting in the way, but number eight flings the puck against the wall and it follows the curve around the back of the net toward the other side.
Etna’s there to receive it, but so is Montreal’s number eighty. He slams into Etna, and they battle it out with the sounds of their sticks hitting each other, though the puck doesn’t seem to move. Other teammates from both sides gather around, getting closer and closer as they try to win the puck for themselves.
As soon as they break apart, a whistle stops the game.
The whistle call marks a break for the peeps in the back to clear off all the snowy residue our skates create. So our two teams glide back to our separate benches.
Etna diverts me, his hand grabbing the collar of my jersey and shoving me into the center of the ice, barely missing Horny on his way back to the bench. “I just thought of something,” he says.
“What’s that?”
He leans in so the words only reach my ears and says, “We forgot one of the most critical aspects of this whole marriage thing—an official engagement. A ring and shit.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Like… asking the other person with a ring?”
He laughs. “Yeah, man. Who’s gonna ask who?”
“Oh, me. Definitely. I suggested it first. I get to ask.” Excitement bubbles up inside me. I feel like I’m a bottle of champagne that’s been shaken and ready to be uncorked.
Etna grins. “Cool.”
He releases me and we make our way back to the bench. This time, we both climb inside, ready to let our teammates have a turn on the ice so we can catch our breath. My attention moves between the conversation that Coach is having with Barron Walsh as the ice cleaners finish up what they’re doing, and the teams head back to the ice.
I glance at the clock. We’re tied with six minutes to go in the third. Horny stops in front of us before heading back to the net. We obediently stand and tap his helmet before sitting down as he glides back to the crease.
The game starts again on the red dot to the right of Montreal’s net. The linesman drops the puck and Montreal gains possession. Number fourteen takes it around and stops behind the net as the guys on the ice all jockey for position.
The seconds tick by without him moving. Just as I’m about to mutter ‘delay of game’ under my breath, one of the refs blows his whistle and makes the call. I grin and take another sip of water. Sometimes, these things work in our favor.
With Montreal receiving a two-minute penalty, we get a power play. I lean forward to watch, readying myself to get back out when one of our defensemen is ready for a break. We have the advantage for two more minutes. Surely we can break this tie.
We lose in overtime.I’m not ridiculously upset about it. Horny’s pissed, but it is what it is. I’m not giving up, but I don’t think there’s even a remote chance that we’re going to make it to the playoffs this season.
Just as we hadn’t last season. Or the season before that.
We have a good team. We just don’t have a great team. I’d say about half our players are really fucking kick ass. Yes, I’m being arrogant and including myself as a kick-ass player. The problem isn’t the half of the team that’s really good. It’s the half that’s not quite as good. Or maybe they just don’t gel with the first half.
Either way, the kick-assers can’t be on the ice all the time. Which is part of the problem. Two of the three goals made against our team happen when two or three of the less than stellar players were on the ice. Two rock stars can’t carry a team. And when you have defensemen who get in the way more than help, it means our goalies aren’t nearly as effective as they would otherwise be.
I don’t know what needs to change, but something does.
