I’m sure it has everything to do with the buzz around tonight’s game. I’m not one to get overly nervous about games. I’m used to feeling as if the weight of the entire game rests on my shoulders.
Pressure is my strength.
I love being the calm in everyone else’s storm. That’s why I’ve always excelled at being a goalie. As I round the corner to Victory Hall, a flash of light sparks from the arena, and it catches my eyes. I blink but keep walking. More than likely, maintenance is working on the lights.
After a few more steps, I pass another entrance to the arena. A second spasm of light draws my gaze back inside. Now I’m curious. The lights should not be malfunctioning like that. I peek my head inside the door. The arena is mostly empty with the doors not opening to the public until half an hour before the game starts.
Bill Baker is standing by the edge of the rink, holding some remote. He’s talking to a couple of guys dressed in dark suits. After talking to one guy, Bill presses a button on the remote, and a giant lightning bolt zaps from a machine above the rink.
Unprepared for how bright it is, I jolt back.
Holy blinding light. I blink, trying to see something—anything. I’ve gone temporarily blind.
I’ve seen these lightning machines before, but they aren’tthatbright. I shake my head as it doesn’t surprise me one bit that Bill did something to try to outdo Noah’s new team. This is a big game for him. I can’t imagine how awkward it must be to be rivals with your stepson’s hockey team, but he doesn’t have to act this way. He can choose to be civil—or at least not blind us all.
It’s just not his way of doing things.
I can’t stop shaking my head as I continue to the locker room. I’m one of the first guys to arrive, but I’m always the slowest getting geared up. By the time I’m ready, the whole team has arrived. I keep checking the office door behind me, waiting for Bill to come in and have some words to say, but when the door finally opens, it’s only Coach Carlson.
“Hey, Coach.” I nod as he strolls past me. All the side conversations that were buzzing around the room immediately die. Coach scans the room once. We all hold our breath, waiting for him to say something—the magic words of encouragement that will push us to win—but he’s oddly quiet.
“What’s up with the lights?” Axl asks, finally breaking the silence, a chuckle slipping from his lips. “I saw Bill got some fancy lightning machine. What does he think, that we’re the Voltage now?”
“You guys know how Bill is. Anything for this team, and he wants the fans to be excited for tonight.” Coach stuffs his hands into the pockets of his suit coat and leans a shoulder against a locker. It’s so rare to see him like this. He’s usually more professional, maintaining perfect posture. Maybe his nerves have gotten the best of him?
Wow. I’ve never heard a pregame speech so anticlimactic that a snort escapes me, drawing Carlson’s gaze to level with mine. “Something wrong, Mr. Owen?”
“No.” I ball my fingers into a fist and tap on my chest, faking a cough to cover it up. “Something was stuck in my throat.”
“That’s what I thought.” Coach walks in a slow circle, taking time to eye each one of us, and he then steps toward the door, calling back, “Everyone in the tunnel in two minutes.”
It’s deathly quiet until the door clicks shut behind him, and Axl immediately turns to me. “Wow, you know it’s serious when he doesn’t even pretend to be excited. He looks terrified.”
“You think so?” I grab my helmet, as it’s the final thing I need before I’m ready, and stand. I always hold off putting it on until I have to, because goalie gear is in a league of its own when it comes to the sauna effect. Nobody sweats like a goalie in full gear.
“I wonder if Bill threatened his job if we lose?” Axl steps in front of me, and we stride out together, balancing on our skates.
“I don’t think he’d do that, would he?” My brows furrow as I stare at Axl.
“Yeah, he would. He traded his own stepson. He’ll probably fire us all if we lose.” Without waiting for my reply, he slips on his helmet and rushes down the tunnel. I follow suit, notwanting to give coach any reason to be upset with me before the game even starts. Something feels off. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. There’s always tension before a game, but this is eerie.
When we skate out of the tunnel, everyone is all business, skating warmup laps. I take my spot in the net and do what I always do when the ice is fresh, skating back and forth to wear down the slick crease.
The crowd is cheering, but it still feels like the vibe is off. I can’t resist scanning the arena, starting with the owner’s box above my net. Bill’s where he always is, which normally doesn’t bother me. However, it adds so much pressure with him literally looming over my head, and tonight, it slaps the sweat on my back. The lights flicker on and off, dimming nearly to darkness, and then that weird lightning machine Bill just installed shoots fake lightning from directly above his suite.
The crowd’s screams become unhinged, but I’m not convinced this lightning is a good addition.
In another arena I might be okay standing under lightning. I’m not so sure I trust Bill with electricity. After the second bolt of lightning, I find myself glaring at the machine. It’s time to do my stretches, and I drop into my splits, staring forward.
Someone yelling my name from the stands catches my attention and I smile. Normally Jackie brings Rigsby, but she’s still in the hospital. After a day of laboring, the doctor ended up taking the baby in an emergency c-section. She’s fine, and so is the baby—another bouncing baby boy. I smirk, thinking about all the Granite Ice hockey merch this little guy is going to have from his funcle.
Earlier today, I picked Rigsby up from school and dropped him off at the hospital, so he could finally meet his brother. I had wanted to go too, but it’s going to have to wait a day. I’m glad I could help Jackie out, but Rigsby was bummed he couldn’t makeit to the game tonight and wished me super-duper luck with tears brewing. Now, I’m smirking ear to ear.
It looks like Rigsby twisted his dad’s arm into bringing him, because they are right behind our goal in the seats I always reserve for him and Jackie. He’s always been my number one fan.
Wearing the Granite Ice hoodie I bought him, Rigsby waves a sign that says, “#1 goalie.” It’s corny, but I always get a surge of warm fuzzies when I see that. It’s funny because it’s true in more ways than one, especially since that’s my jersey number. I love that he’s my biggest fan. I’m glad Tom’s taking a couple of hours to spend with Rigsby. A new baby is going to be a huge adjustment for him. This little dude’s life is forever changed—in the biggest way.
The music switches to the song I always say is myget-up-a-brosong, and I stand again. The knot in my stomach is mostly even now. I flick one more glance over my shoulder at Bill, but it’s right as the lightning flashes. Such weird timing, and now I’m partially blind again. I squint and wobble on my skates. My gaze falls to the side, but not before something catches my eye. I raise my glove to shield my eyes, still half-squinting from being partially blinded. I can’t make out who it is…
