CHAPTER 27
Paxon
It’sthe third period of the final game and we’re fighting for our lives against Colorado. My shoulder is taped and secured as much as it can be, and if anyone has noticed I’m favoring my left side, they haven’t taken advantage of it yet. It hurts like a motherfucker, but we’re so close to having that cup in our hands that it’s mind over matter at this point.
I glance out at the stands, my eyes landing on Boone, Carnage, Specter, and Colson. Then I see the face that brings a huge smile to mine.
Wraith.
I never thought I’d fall in love, but especially not with someone as unique and captivating as Wraith. I didn’t know people like him existed.
The past three months have been a brutal slog of PT, practice, and limited playing time, but I’ve had something amazing to look forward to at the end of each night with Wraith. Away games suck, but a little less now that Wraith is on my phone with some hot phone sex or sweet encouragement. Spending time together has been easy since Wraith and his team only returned to work a couple of weeks ago, now with a more intense vettingprocess and better protocols in place to make sure no one gets hurt who shouldn’t.
Somehow, I’ve made peace with it. Boone forced my hand on that too.
Colorado wins the face-off and I shift my focus back to the game. It would be so badass to win on home ice with our fans. The team knows this is my last game. Coach and I announced it right before practice this morning, and I’d like to think there’s some extra fight in everyone because they know the significance of it all.
Colorado’s toughest D-man, Ivan Kuznetsov, is on me, and I hate when I have to deal with this guy. He makes me look petite with all his muscles and his snarling face, but this is not the time to back down.
“Heard a rumor,” he shouts at me in his thick accent.
“Oh yeah?” I skate to my left, but he follows me, closing in to keep me from getting around him and finding the puck.
“Yeah. I heard you’re getting traded at the end of this season. Guess Mistone has finally had enough of your big-ass mouth.”
I scoff a laugh. That’s what he heard? “Traded, huh?”
“Because you’re broken,” he taunts. “Gonna end your career on a pathetic note, sitting on the bench for some shitty team.”
His words annoy me, but not enough to make me throw a punch and get a penalty. Not this game.
“Fuck off, Kuznetsov. I’ll remind you that we’re both on the ice playing a final game for the cup.”
“Because they feel sorry for you.”
“Oh, yeah, because that’s how hockey teams make important decisions. Don’t worry though. I won’t rub it in when we win. Or maybe I will.”
I catch the movement of the puck from the corner of my eye where Hen, Landham, and Greene are battling with Colorado players for control. I’ve had enough of Kuznetsov and his bullshit, so without thinking, I slam him into the boards with such force that he grunts before falling to the ice.His stick flies out of his hand and I’m off to help my guys, ignoring the sharp, throbbing pain radiating from my shoulder now.
The next six minutes are possibly the hardest of my career, fighting through the pain to defend our net and giving the guys space to score. We end the period tied 3-3, and I groan. This means overtime and sudden death for the win.
As I leave the ice, Coach claps my good shoulder. “You okay?”
I nod, gritting my teeth against the pain. Overtime is five minutes. I can make it through five more minutes. “I’m good.”
When we hit the ice again—me, and our four best players versus the five best Colorado players—I’m pumped up. Landham knows how to rally us. We’re exhausted, sweaty, and close to spent, but this is our game to lose, and none of us plan on letting that happen.
This is it. My legacy. Sure, they’ll talk about my history, all my highs and lows, but for the next few months, all the talk will be about the outcome of this game. Are we going down as cup champions or the team who let it slip through our fingers?
As we get in our lines, I make eye contact with my teammates, then glance back at the stands. The crowd are on their feet, and Boone is the loudest, whistling and shouting “Bouche” until others join in. It feels good, basking in the fans’ enthusiasm, and it’s the boost I need to soldier through this.
Landham wins the face-off, and it’s a blur of activity from there. I’ve got my eyes trained on the nets. Whoever scores next wins. It’s all on the line right now.
Landham skates in my direction and passes to Nicklaus, who passes it to me, then back to Landham, all before Colorado can react. I guard the puck, easily maneuvering around Colorado players who are starting to show their exhaustion through their lethargic plays. I’ve never been the most graceful skater, but I am fast, and that matters.
With my eyes focused on the Colorado goalie, I notice aweakness. He’s protecting his left side. I skate to Landham, yelling, “Goalie’s hurt. Left side.”
He nods in acknowledgment, changing his strategy while me and Hen form a formidable wall of defense around him. Seconds later, he closes in on the goalie, and a smile tugs at my lips when I see the opening. Landham shoots, sending the puck flying into the net right through the goalie’s blocker glove.
