One chance.
I don't think. Thinking's what got me in trouble all practice last week. I just move, muscles firing on instinct, stick coming back, weight shifting. Then I release.
The puck flies.
The goalie drops.
The puck sails over his glove, top shelf, and hits the back of the net just as the buzzer sounds.
The arena explodes.
My teammates are on me before I can fully process what happened, piling on in a tangle of sweaty bodies and pads and sticks, everyone screaming. Groover gets there first, practically tackling me, followed by Wall, then Petrov, then everyone else.
"THAT'S MY BOY!" Becker's yelling directly in my ear.
"In Russia, we call this shot 'the kiss of death,'" Petrov announces.
"You just made that up," Groover says, still wrapped around me.
"Maybe. But sounds good, yes?"
***
THE LOCKER ROOM is mayhem—the good kind. Music blasting, guys singing off-key, someone's spraying water bottles like it’s champagne, like we just won the Cup instead of a regular season game in December.
"That was beautiful," Wall says, toweling off his hair. "Pure poetry."
"Pure luck," I counter, peeling off my jersey, which is soaked through with sweat.
"Luck?" Wall throws a wet towel at my head. "That was skill, baby!"
"Also my perfect pass," Groover adds.
"Your pass was adequate," Becker says.
"Adequate?ADEQUATE?"
They're off, bickering like children, and I escape to the showers before I get dragged into it.
By the time I'm dressed and heading out, the adrenaline's starting to fade, replaced by the sweet kind of exhaustion, the one that comes from leaving everything on the ice.
***
THE HOTEL ROOM is perfectly bland—beige walls, generic art, standard-issue furniture, a bed that's too soft. But it's quiet and private, and right now that's all I need.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off my shoes, and I'm pulling out my phone to text Devon, just when it starts ringing.
His name lights up the screen, and that stupid heart-flip thing happens again. Like he knew I was thinking about him. Like I summoned him telepathically.
I answer, trying not to sound too eager. "Hey."
"Hey yourself, superstar." His voice is warm and teasing, and I can hear the smile in it. "How's Seattle?"
"Wet. Cold. The usual Pacific Northwest experience."
"Sounds miserable."
"It's not so bad. We won, so."
