I feel like my dick is owned by this man, but I’m not even sorry.
The puck drops, bringing me back to the game. I take a breath and shove thoughts of Dasan and the plastic device around my dick from my head. There are only six minutes left, and the score is 5-4 with our team in the lead.
That’s plenty of time for L.A. to catch up, but with the lead, my team has a fire under their asses to keep it.
Willits is on fire protecting Felton in goal tonight. I think he’s actually prevented more goals than our goalie—not that Felton isn’t doing his job. He’s doing phenomenal. But Willits is the barrier he should be, preventing the puck from getting close enough to where Felton needs to defend.
Our big beast has let four in. Interestingly, three of those four goals have been when Willits is on the bench. Ren’s focus has taken him further from Felton than normal. I’m not sure whether that’s because he’s given Willits the responsibility of keeping Felton protected so he can aid our offense, or what.
Sometimes, my team does things that I’m unaware of. Sometimes, they do things thatthey’reunaware of, which I think is probably what’s happening tonight. I daresay that if Ren and Willits worked together as the shield in front of our net, there’d be even fewer goals.
Nason Jordan returns from the ice, and Dasan replaces him. He comes up behind L.A.’s number four and somehow manages to steal the puck away. The move happens so quickly that I’m not sure most of my team sees what happens next.
Dasan passes it to our rookie, Beethoven Morris. He makes the attempt at goal, but L.A.’s goalie blocks. Dasan is already in position to catch the puck’s rebound, except he doesn’t catch it. He treats it like a baseball pitch and smacks it back at the net for the goal.
Since we’re at L.A., we don’t get the big buzzer celebration, but if there’s ever a move that deserves celebrating, it’s the one my man just pulled off. I’m grinning as my team celebrates the goal. Dasan was on the ice for a total of seventeen seconds before the goal landed home.
I glance up at the score and clock. Two minutes and we’re leading 6-4. Yep, we can bring this home. It’s still not impossible for L.A. to manage two more goals, but I think that’s the encouragement we needed to keep my boys pushing hard.
The two teams play hard, but in the end, we manage to take home the win. I celebrate with my team for a minute before they head for the chute. This is our seventh game of the season, and this win tips the scales so we’re ahead in wins to losses. This is the momentum we need. It’s been a good season so far.
I talk to Toby Eads for a few minutes as he conducts interviews for Sports Spot. I enjoy interviews with Toby since he knows his shit. He can pull stats from his head like nobody’s business, and it’s one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen.
“That was some save by Badcock,” Toby says.
I laugh. “Leave it to Felton to bring flight into hockey.”
Toby grins. “I don’t envy that fall, though. It looks like it hurt. Felton’s no stranger to impressive saves though. Was it two years ago when he practically dove over the net to prevent the goal?”
“He’s ridiculously versatile.”
“And flexible,” Toby notes.
I snort. “Yes, and flexible. I’m always impressed by his range.”
“I’d love to see how he practices for flight,” Toby says, smiling.
“Oh no. Practice is strictly confidential.”
Toby laughs. “Thank you for your time, Coach. I look forward to your game against Arizona tomorrow.”
I incline my head and wait for the camera to turn away, then I meet Toby’s eyes. “I’ll give you Felton’s secrets if you give me the secrets of the hockey universe you have stored in your head.”
He laughs again. “Trust me, I wish I knew how it worked so I could sell my method. It’s all stats and math.” Toby shrugs. “And a passion for hockey.”
“You’re always leaving the hockey world in awe, Toby.” I grip his hand in a handshake. “See you next L.A. game.”
Toby nods. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“Any predictions?” I call as I walk away.
Toby gives me a smirk. “I can’t shareallmy predictions, Coach, or the mysterious allure will be gone.”
I shake my head and follow the ruckus my team is making in the locker room. “Good game, Avalanche,” I yell over them.
My comment receives a chorus of whoops.
“Let’s keep the momentum going tomorrow.”
