Whatever we decide, we’re going to do it together.
Forever.
EPILOGUE
KELLER
I don’t know how, but I walked away with only a one-game suspension after the fight with that douchebag from Vegas. I’m damn glad because otherwise, there’s a chance I wouldn’t be sitting on this bench with my teammates during Game Seven of the Finals. Coach wouldn’t have trusted me to help carry the team through the playoffs if I couldn’t keep myself in check.
“We can do this,” Hutch says, his eyes locked on the ice as Lawson passes the puck to Hayes. “I’m sure of it.”
I’m glad he is. We’re down one goal with just under seven minutes to go, and I have the worst feeling we might be fighting a losing battle. It’s been a hard-fought series with New York. At first, I found it fitting that we were playing them given they were the ones who drafted me, but then we went down two games, and nothing felt good anymore. We managed to come back and bring it all the way to seven, but now there’s a chance we’ll walk away with nothing but disappointment.
“Fuck yeah, we can,” Locke agrees. He sits forward, then holds his hand out. “iPad me.”
He’s not usually one to review plays in the middle of a game, so I’m surprised he’s asking for the device. I hand it to him anyway, then track the puck as my teammates dump it in deep.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I repeat as Lawson battles for it. The guy pinning him up against the wall is much bigger than he is, but who cares? This is playoff hockey. It’s a whole different beast than the regular season.
“He’s got this. We’re good. We’re—fuck!” Hutch shouts as the puck squirts out of the zone.
I feel the exact same way.
Fox comes out of his net to play it, likely telling the defenseman who goes back for it that we should work up the ice the other way, which is how we get right back into the play after a partial line change.
“Fucking hell! I was so damn close!” Hayes bangs his stick against the boards, clearly frustrated, and I don’t blame him. We’ve had to work hard for every damn goal this series, and it’s a tough pill to swallow knowing we sit here so close, yet so far away from winning this game.
“We can do this,” Hutch says again, trying to calm him, but as the seconds tick by, I’m feeling less and less hopeful that he’s right.
Then suddenly, the puck is in the back of the net, and we’re jumping off the bench in joy.
“Fuck yes, baby!” Hayes screams.
“See?” our captain says, grabbing me by the shoulders and giving me a shake. “We fucking got this!”
We bump fists with Frederic as he skates by, and if we somehow win this thing, that guy is gettingallthe free drinks for the rest of his time as a member of the Seattle Serpents.
The clock winds down, and we’re officially headed to overtime.
“Holy shit! What a thrill!” Lawson says through labored breaths just before guzzling half a bottle of sports drink once we’re back in the locker room.
“What a fucking goal!” Poldzkin adds.
Similar sentiments go up throughout the room. Everyone is buzzing with energy from the game-tying goal, several people patting Frederic on the back, me included.
But as soon as Coach Smith walks in, the room falls silent. He stands in the middle of the space, his hands on his hips, the gray at his temples more obvious than ever before. Though we just tied the game, he’s not smiling, and that’s because he knows better than anyone else that the hard work isn’t over yet.
“I know we went down for a bit in the third, but that might have been the best sixty minutes we’ve played this season, fellas. These next ones… Well, shit, they just might be the most important.” He lifts his head, locking eyes with every single player. “Frederic, that was a hell of a goal and good job getting us back in the game, but I want to make myself clear when I say this isn’t just one man’s game. This iseveryone’sgame, and if we’re going to win this, we have to fight as a unit. As one.Whole.Not a piece of a puzzle, the entire fucking thing, all right?”
“Heard,” we respond as he walks out of the room.
It’s the last thing anyone says. We don’t even look to Hutchinson to make a speech. We all know what we need to do to win.
When we finally get back out on the ice, we’re locked in completely. There’s hardly any conversation on the bench, but there doesn’t need to be—we know.
I take the ice for my first shift, tapping my stick for the puck. It’s shot over to me instantly, and I take it toward the net, hoping for an opening, but there’s nothing. I drag it around back, making sure to box out the opponent, then I zing it over to my teammate, and it lands right on his tape. He zips the pucktoward the net, but the New York goalie is faster than him, and it bounces off his pad as I take a cross-check, a warning to get out from in front of their net, though I don’t heed it.
We scramble for the puck, and it eventually pops free. We try to get it past the goalie again, but he snatches it up this time, flashing his glove to show the ref he’s got it. The whistle is blown, and the play is officially dead. We get set again and win it back, but it takes a weird bounce and goes out of the zone. We take the chance to get some fresh legs on the ice and make a quick change.
