Game freaking seven.
This is the kind of shit we’ve all dreamed of since we were old enough to be out on our own skates.
But it’s also as high pressure as sports can be.
We’re exhausted. Our bodies on the brink of giving up.
Thank fuck for Parker, Corey, our newest trainer, Lennon, and the rest of the medical staff. Without them patching us back together after every game, we wouldn’t be here.
Hell, if I hadn’t been traded a few months ago, I wouldn’t be here. Seattle’s season ended a few weeks ago with a dark cloud hanging over their heads. They never had a chance at the playoffs this year. Which is a shame. On paper, they should be up there with the best in the league. Hell, they’ve got some of the best players. Anderson Westly and Andrey Petrov are fucking phenomenal. But even they couldn’t get the team to gel right this year. There had been big management changes going into theseason, along with some key players suffering from injuries that saw them miss a lot, if not all, the games. It was always going to be an uphill battle, but I never expected it to be as hard as it was.
I was a part of it, though. I was failing right alongside everyone else. I should be spending my days analyzing what went wrong and feeling sorry for myself.
I shouldn’t be here with a shot at the cup.
It’s wrong. Or at least, I think it is.
Milo McKenna, aka Brit, should be here right now.
I shake my head. I’ve stolen his place, his moment.
Linc and Parker keep trying to convince me otherwise, but I’m really fucking struggling to see all this from their perspective.
If we win tonight…will it even feel like a victory?
Confusion continues to war within me as everyone sets about getting ready, each player locked in their own pregame ritual. Some have headphones in, blasting music to get them in the zone. Others wear ear defenders so they have silence. Some are eating certain foods, drinking certain drinks, and sending final messages to their person. Our tendy, who proposed to his girl earlier today, is grinning at his cell as if he’s just won the freaking lottery. Fucking sap.
All the while, I’m just sitting here, lost. It’s almost as if I’ve never played a game of hockey before in my life.
The weight of what we’re about to attempt is pressing down on me, but not in the way I thought it would.
It’s because I don’t deserve it.
Glancing around the room, I take a moment to watch everyone.
My teammates. My…friends. It might be early days with the Vipers, but I feel like I belong here. I feel like one of them.
It gives me hope for the future. For next season.
Even if we don’t get the W tonight, we’ve set ourselves up for next year. A year where I’m hopefully going to go all the way with them.
“Cover your dicks,” Killer suddenly shouts. “Woman in da house.”
My head jerks up to see which one has the balls to walk into our dressing room without any warning.
At first thought, I assume it’s my sister. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’s seen entirely too much of my teammates, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
A silent laugh bursts out of me when I actually find Hailee, our PR Director, and the biggest pain in my ass, standing in the doorway. As usual, her lips are pursed, and there’s a frown pinching her brows.
My eyes drop to her throat. She isn’t that irritated yet; it’s not pulsating. That’s her tell when she’s really on the edge of losing her shit. I’m not ashamed to say that I often challenge myself to see it.
Her eyes scan the room, but it might as well be empty, because it’s like she doesn’t see my teammates in all states of undress.
But then, she finds her target.
I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes.
What the fuck have I done now? I thought I’d been pretty well behaved recently.
