By the time we hit intermission, the box is buzzing with frustration.
“God, this is stressful,” Emerson says.
It is.
I used to feel right in the middle of the action when I would sit in the stands, but I welcomed any distraction, and I would have loved sitting in a luxury box with snacks and a bar, not to mention all the people in the suite milling around and chatting. But tonight, I’m invested in the game. I’m invested in Jared. I feel a pang of terrified vulnerability at this admission, but I can’t deny it.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Jared
“Let’s fucking get going!” Arch shouts in the locker room. “We’re better than these guys.”
He’s not just saying that. The San Jose Thunder don’t have the roster depth that we do, and our goalie was all-pro the last three years. But the Thunder goalie is playing out of his mind tonight, and we haven’t gotten it done.
“We need to play up to our potential,” Tex Williams, one of our captains, says, waving an emphatic fist in the air.
“We will,” I vow, standing up from the bench and grabbing my helmet. “Let’s go, boys.”
As we file out of the locker room and back onto the ice, I glance up toward Declan’s box.
I saw Ashley before the game started, and I spot her now. She’s too far away for me to get a good view, but I can make out her profile.
I promised her I’d score a goal for her.
Time to make good on that promise.
* * *
Ashley
“Third period’s starting.” Emerson nudges me. “Maybe somebody will finally score.”
The Wild Kings come out with a lot of energy, and the first few minutes are a frenzy of players crashing up against the boards and fighting for control of the puck.
But scoring remains at a premium.
Shots are fired, and both goalies are more on fire than the offenses.
“The Thunder goalie has made some amazing stops tonight,” Emerson says.
“He has.” I tug at my hair nervously. “The Kings really need this game.”
As time winds down, I find myself standing with my arms resting over the bar of the suite. The energy in the arena has gone from excited to frenzied with fans screaming and stomping their feet.
The players seem to pick up on the energy of the crowd.
Arch wins a face-off, and I’m sure this is it.
But then Max gets sent to the penalty box for roughing.
Being down a man, I sit down again, anxiety filling my body.
“They can’t score when they’re shorthanded,” I mutter to Emerson and Haley.
“They can,” Emerson says confidently. “Last season, the Wild Kings had the highest percentage of shorthanded goals in the league.”
“Really?” I could hug her. “That’s a great stat.”
