“Let’s motherfucking gooooo!” Ollie yells from the other side of the locker room before emitting a howl that would make Pete Santos proud. Ollie’s not your typical captain, but we love the guy, and I can’t imagine anyone else leading us out there tonight.
On paper, we should crush the Bucks of Bretton State. We’ve got all the pieces. Coach Baylor picked each one of us for our skills, and though we all thought he was batshit crazy at times—like when he poached two players from our biggest rival—there’s no denying the man’s a fucking genius. So yeah, when you look at our positions and our strengths on paper, it all makes sense.
But out there on the ice? Paper doesn’t matter for shit.
An ear-splitting whistle pierces the air, and that means Ollie wants our attention. In a few minutes, Coach Baylor will give us a thirty second pep talk and then tell us to go kick some ass.But right now, it’s Ollie’s turn to rev us up. As our captain, he’s earned it.
“You know I’m a man of few words,” he jokes. “No, but seriously, if I took time to say all the shit on my mind right now, we’d be here until next week. You know what, though? Our hotel room is pretty fuckin sweet. Can we swing that, Coach? Just stick around for another week? Whaddaya say?”
Baylor and his assistant coaches, Van and Anderson, stand at the back of the room, waiting their turn and biting back smiles. “I think you better pick up the pace,” Coach Baylor says. “Both with this speech and on the ice.”
We all laugh because Baylor isn’t known for his comedy routine, so when he busts out a joke, it’s a special occasion. And things don’t get much more special than another crack at the national championship.
“All right, all right,” Ollie says. “I guess I gotta keep this brief so we can play some damn fine hockey and celebrate. Every guy in this room knows exactly what to do out there. It’s the same thing we’ve been doing all year. Trust yourself. Trust your teammates. That’s all there is to it. Now let’s go a win another motherfucking trophy, huh?” He lets out a howl that we all echo.
The energy in this room is palpable. I feel like everybody is on my wavelength for once, that’s how pumped we are. We’re ready for this, there’s no doubt about it. The Bretton Bucks don’t stand a chance against us.
Coach says about five words, and then it’s time for us to hit the tunnel. I’m practically bouncing, even in my skates. I want this win just as bad as my teammates do, but probably for very different reasons. For some guys, like Ollie, this is the last game they'll play until the rec leagues come calling. For some guys, like the freshmen, it’s the chance to contribute to a legacy. And for guys like Blue, it’s the opportunity to get their name out there and get noticed. I guess I fall under that category, too? Fuck. Idon’t know the first thing about how to pursue a pro career. Blue has yapped about it a million times, but none of the information sticks. And it was so much easier back in high school. Bainbridge wanted me and offered a scholarship. I said yes. Why can’t it be that easy again?
“Get outta your head, buddy,” JT says, patting me on the shoulder and alerting me to the fact that most of the guys have left the room. “We got a game to win.”
“Right,” I say, doing my damnedest to forget all the negative thoughts and worries that threaten to run amok in my brain.
Holy fuckballs. We’re gonna lose this game.
As impossible as it seems, the win is slipping through our fingers as we sit by and watch.
It’s not pretty out there. JT’s doing his typical imitation of an octopus, but he can’t actually be everywhere at once, so we’re down by two with a score 5-3.
I’ve got no doubt the announcers are having a field day watching us implode, and Coach is gripping his clipboard so tight it’s about to crack. The fans are probably losing their minds right now. I can just picture Viv up there wearing my jersey that hangs to her knees. She’s got to be screaming her lungs out right now and telling us to get our asses in gear. And she’s not wrong. We’re a fucking mess. I can seat it clearly from my place on the bench, but when the whistle blows in thirty seconds, will I be able to do anything to change the numbers on the scoreboard?
Ollie’s sitting next to me, but he doesn’t seem like the same guy who’s been my teammate for the past three years. He missed a clear shot at the end of the first period, and I think it’s still messing with his head. Wagner’s looking stoic as hell, even moreuntouchable than usual, and Deano looks like someone told him his dog just died. I’m half-tempted to shake each one of them and tell them to fucking focus, but that advice is laughable from a guy like me.
The ref blows his whistle, and we jump the boards. Maybe the line change is what we need to finally fucking click. The Bucks are coming in hot and heavy, and I don’t fucking blame them. They’re winning a game they were supposed to lose. That’s one point in their favor. But the upset has us rattled, so that’s another thing they’ve got going for them. Plus, they’re fan are fucking losing it right now. They’ve got that underdog momentum, and it’s hard to beat.
I know this, because we usually have it on our side.
But not today, and it fucking shows. We’re slow as shit. Our reaction times are absolute crap, and poor JT looks like he ‘s about ready to drop dead out there. If he wasn’t such a fucking genius in the net, they have twenty-six goals. I guran-fucking-tee it.
Flo’s got the puck, but he’s stuck, and nobody on this damn team seems to know how to skate anymore. Swear to god, they’re all just watching as the forward for the Bucks flips the puck and starts careening down the ice. My best buddy in the whole damn world looks like he’s about to cry, and I’m not sure I can take any more of this shit, so I race like hell to catch number sixteen, McGovern. Ollie yells after to me ask what I’m fucking doing, but I don’t have time to answer. I’m skating like a maniac instead of staying with my guy and sticking with the plan. Well, I say fuck the plan because the plan isn’t fucking working.
I might get my ass reamed out for this, especially if McGovern misses the shot and the defenseman I should be guarding gets the rebound. But McGovern’s been on fire tonight. He’s scored two of their goals and assisted a third. That kid’s not gonna miss.
Not unless I make him.
I swear I can feel the energy shift as I get closer to him. He’s flying so high right now, he’s got no damn idea I’m hot on his heels and it’s so loud in this arena that he can’t hear any of the warnings that are being called out. Of course, that also means I can’t hear any fans or coaches yelling at me, either. All I’ve got is my gut on this one. And that the fact that when I look at JT, he’s smiling like it’s fucking Christmas.
I tap my blade on the ice behind McGovern’s right skate, then I pick off the puck from the left. Fucker doesn’t even know what’s happening until I’m halfway back to the lue line. Wagner’s waiting for me with pure fucking joy written all over his face. The only other time I’ve seen him this happy is when he’s looking at my sister. He manages to get a shot off, and the whole Bretton team must still be in shock from the fact that I tipped the puck away from their star player because Wagner’s goal goes in clean.
The guys on the bench go nuts, and even Coach Baylor is grinning. We’re only one goal behind with three minutes on the clock. It’s not ideal, but it’s a hell of a lot better than where we were a minute ago.
The puck is back in play, and Leo’s skating like a man possessed. The second the puck hits his stick, he’s sending it back to Wagner. They volley it back and forth, but the Bretton guys are like sharks in the water. They’re waiting for a mistake, a slip-up, and then they’re going to pounce.
At least, that’s what their plan is. But I’ve got plans, too. And they don’t involve going down without a fight. Leo makes a shaky pass, but before number twelve can intercept it, I skate right past and hip check him. That buys Dutton enough time to get the puck, but the heat is on him, so he sends it right back to Leo. It’s like a damn ping pong match with these two, but just when the Bretton Bucks catch onto their game, Wagner fakes his pass to Leo and sends it straight to Dean, who drives it rightdown the ice. The Bucks are all over him, so he shoots his shot, but the goalie easily shoos it away. Deano’s having none of that, though. He nabs it before their guys can get ahold of it, and he pings it right back in.
Holy fuckballs. We’re tied.
We skate to the bench and my boys look tired as fuck. Me? I’m so hyped right now, I can’t sit. Not even when Wagner barks, “Sit your ass down, Mick. You’re making me nervous.”
