I’m going to miss this. Regardless of what happens with the sale, the team won’t be the same next year. Change is part of the game. People get traded,rookies get drafted up, and just when you think you’ve made a home, you can find yourself in an entirely new city, surrounded by strangers.
I didn’t think I’d love this season, but it’s been my favorite yet. For the first time since I was drafted, I feel like I’ve really made a family. Even Thompson is tolerable these days, even if it’s only under threat of physical violence. Suddenly, there’s more to life than hockey. I’m more sure of things now. I have Freddie, and something tells me no matter what happens, we’re both stubborn enough to get through it together. I can’t picture life without her—an equally terrifying thought—but I’ll cross that bridge later.
I strap on my pads and pull my jersey over my head. If this is my last season, I’m going to savor every moment of it. The music swells through the corridor outside, and it’s showtime.
Time to flay some Rattlers.
The announcer’s voice booms, welcoming us to the ice. Lights flash and the music thunders as I make two quick sweeps of the rink, getting a feel for the ice, and no, I’m not wearing socks. The arena is packed all the way up to the nosebleeds, and I wonder how much of it is thanks to Freddie. This city wants to support us—wants to see us make a comeback. There’s a new freeness to my skating like a weight’s been lifted from me, and I realize that I no longer feel the sort of anxiety I did about my injury. I want to keep playing but if it ends this year, I’ll know that I’ve had a good run.
“I’m surprised they let you back out here. Damaged goods,” Jennings hisses in my ear before the puck drops.
“Too bad you don’t have an injury to blame for your insufferable personality,” I say back. “I guess you were just born like that.”
The puck hits the ice, and Fontenot snatches it from between Jennings’ legs, making a quick pass to Sokolov, who breaks away. I hustle after them,but not before stealing a look at Jennings. He looks like a baby who’s just had his candy stolen, and I smirk.
The Rattlers intercept the play and keep us on our toes for the first period, but they don’t get out unscathed. Poirier makes good on his promise to check the shit out of Jennings, who goes down hard, only to hook Poirier across the jaw. Poirier’s mouth is bleeding, but when the refs shut him and Jennings in the penalty box, Poirier goes in still chirping. I wonder how much money his penalties have cost the Monarchs over the years.
At the top of the second, the Rattlers make the first goal of the game and the crowd erupts in a thunder of boos. Morales follows it up with a filthy slapshot, and we’re in the lead again.
“Let’s fucking go, boys!” Häkkänen shouts from our net, banging his stick on the ice.
“You’re not going to have a job in a couple weeks,” Jennings says after the Rattlers intercept my pass to LeBlanc. “Back to the EHL you go.”
He shuts up when Tremblay assists me for our third goal of the game. The Rattlers get one more at the buzzer, ending the second period in a heart-pounding 3-2 lead, Monarchs.
“You’ve fucking got this, Mattias!” A familiar shout comes from near our bench as we pour onto the ice at the start of the third period. I glance over my shoulder to see Freddie at the boards, cheering wildly. Next to her, Ryan pumps his fist in the air as he pans the camera, and Parker’s expression is so intent I wonder if they might give the Rattlers a thrashing themselves if we don’t manage to win this.
Then, my gaze lands on the three people standing behind her, and my heart stops.
It’s Micke, along with a very pregnant-looking woman who must be Astrid. Next to them is my mother. All of them are smiling, wearing Monarchs jerseys emblazoned with my number. My heart practically stops.
How?
I look at Freddie. There’s a hint of something devious in her eyes, but her smile is pure joy. I think she might be tearing up. I blink again, unable to believe that’s really her—my mother—sitting there. She came all the way to Los Angeles from that tomb of a sofa she never leaves…to see me.
It feels impossible—like a ship that sailed long ago.
I don’t know how Freddie’s done this. All I can think is, I don’t know what I’ve done in this life or the last to deserve this woman but I’m going to do everything I can to keep her. She’s the only one for me.
“You good, dude?” Fontenot screeches to a stop beside me and claps me on the shoulder. I realize I’ve been standing still for the last thirty seconds.
I shake myself. He’s right, I’ve got a game to play. And for the first time in my life, my mother is here to see it. There’s no way in hell I’m letting the Rattlers win this now.
One of their wings takes possession, weaving through Pulkkinen and Poirier for a goal to tie the game.
“Fan i helvete,” I curse.
“Get out there and fuck them up,” Westergren says.
Few things in my life have felt better than when I intercept a pass to Jennings. He tries to catch me, but I’m too fast. None of them can catch me when I’m giving my all. My slapshot cracks against the ice, the puck flying past their goaltender’s head to catch in the top corner of the net. The arena erupts into wild cheering, everybody out of their seats.
With fiveminutes left on the clock, the match is tied, and I wonder if we won’t pull it off. I hear Micke swearing in Swedish as Dallas takes possession again, and when I glance over there I laugh, because my mother is giving him an earful. She never did like our colorful vocabulary.
There is only a minute left on the clock when I snatch the puck on a penalty drop for Tremblay’s slashing, but I’m halfway across the ice before anyone catches me. Two of their defensemen box me in, but I manage to smuggle the puck around their sticks and make a quick pass to Sokolov.
He fakes the Rattlers out, passing the puck back between his legs only to twist and snag it himself. Sokolov makes a break for the corner and just manages to slip it into the net. I’m grinning like an idiot, because there’s no way we’re not clinching the playoffs now. The crowd erupts in screams and cheers, just as the goal horn wails. The team piles onto us.
“Disgusting assist, Falkenberg!” Fontenot shouts.
