The coaches send me out with the second line. We go over the boards and I snag a lucky turnover, whipping the puck off the boards and back to Stevo. He gets it to Fish who carries it into the zone and gets a good shot on goal, although it goes off the post.
Back on the bench, we get iPads shoved into our hands to watch the play again.
“Good job, boys. Little tighter in the slot and you’d have him.”
I yank my glove off to touch the screen. My ring glints under the bright arena lights. I watch the play three times, then shove the iPad back behind me, someone taking it over my shoulder before we shift down the bench, ready to go back out again.
This time, we don’t get lucky.
This time, we need to make our own luck, and it takes a few cycles in and out of the neutral zone before we can force Hamilton to make an error. But when they do, we pounce. Fish carries it into the zone, Stevo and myself swooping behind, forcing their defense to cover us, leaving him open to take the exact same shot again.
This time, he scores.
The whole barn erupts in noise. Our goal song blares and Fish swoops past our bench, Stevo and me following, glove taps for everyone.
Coop takes the next face off at the center line while we catch our breath on the bench, and fifteen seconds after we break the seal, his line—usually my line—scores again.
Fuck. Yeah.
“All hail the blender,” I shout at our coaches.
Six days later, I touch down in LA only long enough to collect my wife and a travel bag full of bikinis and sex toys. Then we fly south to a resort in Cabo for the weekend.
“I’m so proud of you,” she keeps saying.
Which I know, and appreciate, but I’m not feeling it for myself just yet.
We took Hamilton all the way to seven games. Three home games. Two wins in front of the Buffalo fans.
And then a gutting loss that hurt more than I thought it could, both physically and emotionally.
But holding my wife in the crystal clear ocean is healing.
Her arms and legs are wrapped around me and I’ve got my hands under her ass, keeping her secure as we bob, the warm waves pushing us this way and that.
“This is perfect,” she whispers.
“Happy honeymoon.” I roll my cheek against hers.
“Are you happy?” She cranes her head back and bites her lip.
“God yes.” I brace her hips with one arm so I can use the other to free that worried flesh.
“Salty,” she whispers as my thumb touches her tongue.
“Sorry.” I kiss her, licking away the ocean. “I’m so happy. I’m sorry if I can’t shake off my regret. It’s just because I won’t get a chance to do it again for those fans.”
“But you will get another chance.”
“I know.” I press my forehead against hers. “The rollercoaster is new.”
“Maybe you should do something special for Buffalo before you move.”
“I’ve moved, Frankie. I’m not leaving you all summer long.” I drop my hand to her waist, where a firm little bump is starting to make itself known. I’m not missing a second of this summer of change with her.
“We can go back together. And you need to pack up your house. That can’t be all on your parents.”
“They love shit like that.”
