. . .
Will
Other than the Scorpions, the New York Blades have dominated the NHL for well over a decade, the Cup often passing from one team to the other, one season to the next.
Toronto aside, I was destined to be drafted to the Blades and play for the team my dad helps coach. Tonight’s game has only solidified those feelings.
It would’ve been less painful to lie down on the ice and let the Zamboni flatten me because I’ve barely seen the puck for the first two periods, and as I switch out on a line change and make eye contact with Tristan, I know my teammate has zero intention of playing as an actual team.
Fucking fine.I’ll score my own goddamn goals.
The Blades are on a power play, thanks to a stupid and out-of-character challenge from Silas, but as the puck spills free from the boards and Mason picks it up, I find myself in more space than usual. Perhaps the four-to-zero lead the Blades have has gone to their heads, and they’ve neglected to remember that I’m on the roster.
Mason wastes no time shooting a pass to me, which is perfectly placed to take in my stride. A bit like our team, theBlades’ weakest link is their goalie since they never replaced the talent and consistency of Archer Moore, who retired from pro hockey when I was in my sophomore year in college. I know Dad will be watching my every move, but like a true professional, he’ll want his goalie to come out on top.
Too fucking bad. He commits before I do, diving to his right and presenting me with the easiest finish I’ll likely have all season. I let the puck slide over the line while I skate across to the Rogues’ fans who traveled to watch tonight’s shit show.
At least I’ve given them something to cheer about.
It’s four to one with only two minutes left on the timer. We’ve lost, but I celebrate with the crowd like we just made it to the playoffs.
“You’re a freaking phenomenon, man.” Mason wraps his arm around my shoulders, and we bump helmets. “A future Hall of Famer, for sure.”
Within a couple of seconds, most of the team is circled around me. I should really be celebrating with them and not breaking away to head for the VIP area, which is conveniently located at ice level.
I can feel every pair of eyes on me—at least twenty thousand—as I pull off my left glove and glide my hand along the plexiglass, throwing up ice when I pull up in front of where she’s sitting.
It’s fucking idiotic and totally on brand for me when I make direct eye contact with Drew.
Goddamn, she looks beautiful today. Dressed in a light-blue suit, she’s styled her hair in loose waves that fall down her back.
“Come here.” I beckon with my fingers.
She scowls at me, but I see the faintest smile that tries to break free.
Drew shakes her head at me and mouths,No, which only spurs me on.
Arms folded over her chest, she finally yields and stands, approaching the plexiglass with a stern look.
Because I promised Mason I’d join him for drinks tonight, this will probably be the only time I get to see her. She’ll likely be working all night to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting with Repeet.
The crowd is loud, and I know I’m around ten seconds from picking up a minor penalty for delaying the game.
Whatever. We’ve lost anyway.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I can’t hear her, but after years of playing and watching hockey in deafening arenas, I’m good at reading lips.
“That goal was for you,” I yell back.
The pink staining her cheeks tells me that she understood, but then she claps and motions toward a small group of Rogues’ fans.
“It’s for them,” she volleys back.
Pushing off the boards, I glide backward toward center ice, shaking my head and chewing on the corner of my mouth guard.
She can deny and deflect all she wants. But that goal, right there, was for my girl.
