Unfortunately, gravity takes me to the ice, two opposing players on top of me. While this isn't the most comfortable position, I do my best to keep us tangled up just long enough for a breakaway and then manage to make it back on my skates a few strides ahead of them.
I race across center ice, just in time for Dave to miss a goal, the opposing goalie knocking it away. Warren snags a reboundand attempts to take a second shot, but someone else is there, slapping it back down the ice.
Cursing, I stick an edge in the ice, stopping my forward momentum and launching myself into the path of the puck.
Reaching with my stick, I managed to just snag it, wobbling it a bit before I get it under control. I change directions again, ice spraying everywhere. Defenders rush toward me, like lumbering defensive linemen on skates, knowing that if they give me even the slightest opening, I’ll score.
I slap the puck to Dave, pivoting and ducking out of the way as they all scramble. Every last player on the ice feels the pressure; everyone trying to secure every win at this point in the season.
I’m coming up the line, just off center, and I feel the goalie's eyes on me even as I watch Dave in my peripheral, hanging back just enough to keep attention off him.
Fifteen feet to go.
Ten feet.
Five.
Dave goes to the left, but instead of exploding off the edge of his skate, he spins around, fluidly slapping the puck to me. It lands soft against my stick, and I tap it back and forth, wanting the goalie to be sweating by the time I'm on him, needing his entire focus on me and the puck I'm going to shoot by him.
Five feet, four, three, two. I bring my stick back, envisioning the puck in the goal but then, at the last second, I grin, tap the puck to my right, directly into the path of Warren’s stick as it flicks forward.
A horn sounds on the goal, and the crowd goes wild in celebration. My heart pounds in my chest, wanting nothing more than to join them in their celebrating, but with 30 seconds remaining on the clock, there's no time for that.
Change up is called. I book it over the boards, sitting my tired ass on the bench, grabbing some much-needed water. It's excruciating how long the last 30 seconds of a game can last when everyone's bone tired and you're trying to avoid a tie.
I accept a few pats on the back, silently watching as the opposing team ups the intensity. These are the moments I feel for the goalie, even a seasoned one such as ours—dead calm and unbothered—ready to do whatever he has to shut it down.
Fifteen seconds.
I know they won't put my old ass out there at this point. And Dave's old ass is now sitting beside me. We watch as our younger teammates work the ice as if they haven't just played an entire game.
This is why we don't have many off days in the season. If you don't have a game, you're practicing, if you're not practicing, you're running tape. If you're not running tape, you're going over strategy. If you're not going over strategy, you're doing conditioning, weightlifting, anything and everything you can think of to give that little bit of edge over opposing teams.
You go into every game like you're the underdog. Go into every game like you have something to prove.
The horn sounds. With the win officially secured, we finally celebrate, and I look across the ice to where Cassidy is standing. I swear I can hear her cheering louder than anyone else.
Dave's elbow in my side draws my attention, and I turn to see him grinning. “Funny how things change, eh?”
I frown and ask, "What are you talking about?"
He lifts his chin toward Cassidy as he says, "She’s no longer flipping you the bird, or threatening to chop your head off."
I glanced back at her and then shrug. "She probably just hasn't gotten to it yet today."
Dave doesn’t say anything, so I look at him, finding him staring at me with his eyebrows raised. “Did something happen?"
I make a face, wave my hand at him as I respond, "No, man. Nothing happened.”
“You’re lyin’,” he sputters, giving me a punch on the arm hard enough that it has me rubbing the spot. “Come on, man. Spill.”
My face heats, my eyes looking at the ground. “It’s nothing exciting, Dave. Not even slightly scandalous.”
Dave laughs loudly, then responds, “Dude, I’d never ask you to spill scandalous details about yourwife,” he pauses having a good laugh at the idea that he’d ask such a thing or maybe that he’d think I would ever share such details about Cassidy. Because he’s correct, I would never. After a few chuckles he sobers and says, “You seem different in a good way, Raf. Happy, content.”
My face heats even more and I clear my throat then reply, “I guess you could say that.”
He’s staring at me expectantly, looking so eager that I laugh a little nervously then lean in close. “She told me she loves me.”
