“There’s nothing like a game seven,” Connor says to me as we ready ourselves for the faceoff.
“Didn’t you lose the last game seven you played?” I ask, remembering last season’s finals where the Blizzards beat Connor and his old team, the Chicago Broad Wings.
He stares right at me, blue eyes twinkling. “At least I’ve played in one.”
“Shots fired!” Tavish says from where he’s waiting on the right wing behind Connor.
“Now, now,” Danton says. “There’s no need to be nasty. We’re just playing a hockey game here.”
“Cap,” I say. “I love you. You’re a great captain. But please shut up.”
He laughs out loud as I crouch down, readying myself for the face off.
“Atta boy,” Danton says. “Let’s get this done.”
And get this done, I do. The puck doesn’t even hit the ice before I have my stick blade on it. But this time, instead of kicking it out of the circle, I spin around with it attached to my stick and start skating away.
This move alone has confused everyone on the Blizzards. Gavin stops in his tracks on his way to body check Brandon, who is usually my go-to target to send the puck out of a face off. So now, Gavin has to change direction which has bought me some time and space to get the puck in the Blizzards’ defensive zone.
I want to end this game. Right now. I don’t want this win to continue to linger just out of our grasp. The longer overtime goes on, the harder it’s going to get. We’re already gassed. We’re already bumped and bruised. This game can be over in an instant. I want that instant to be now. It’s so close I can taste it.
My linemates have caught up to me. But so have the Blizzards. There are skaters everywhere and all of us are trying to keep an eye and a stick on the puck.
In front of me, I see Danton coming in for the screen. I wind up, and shoot the puck, aiming directly for the space Ander has left open between himself and the left post.
Right as I’m about to see the puck go in, Ander’s leg comes outof nowhere. He stops the puck clean with his leg pad. It bounces off of him and to my horror, it lands right onto the tape of Connor’s stick. Kennedy takes off and Gavin makes his presence known by getting in the way of anyone who can even get close to coming near him.
He crosses the blue line into our zone first. Gavin chooses to leave me be, but makes his way to the front of our net to both screen Ivanov and be prepared for a rebound if Connor’s shot doesn’t go in. I reach as far as I can with my stick. I’m so close but also too far.Mere inches away from being able to lift Connor’s stick and get the puck away from him.
Connor makes a sharp turn, then doubles back once he’s shaken me away from him. Then with grace and ease, he slips the puck past Ivanov’s outstretched leg. It hits the back of the net with a soft tap.
It’s over. I drop to my knees as blue, black, and white confetti falls from the stadium’s ceiling.
Brandon
The guttural scream I hear ring out across the ice sums up exactly how I feel at this moment having watched that goal go in.
I look forward, expecting to see Ivanov absolutely losing his shit. But he’s slumped forward in front of the goal, silent as can be.
Maybe it’s Ryan who let out that cry. But when I see him, he’s on his knees, a few feet in front of the net with his head hanging.
Not far from him is the source of the scream. It’s Kennedy. And I can’t look away as I watch him become more and more overwhelmed with emotion. His scream is somehow both celebratory and angry. It’s hard to watch. Thankfully, I don’t have to watch it for long, because it takes a split second before Gavin has him held in a tight embrace.
The two of them stand there, completely unguarded as the world watches them in victory together again. But this time, no one is ripping Gavin away. And Connor’s father is no longer holdinghis son in his vice-like grip. This victory for Connor has always been about more than just the damn Stanley Cup.
I extend my hand down to Ryan. He looks up at me with wet eyes. I nod at him and swallow down the lump that’s in my throat while the rest of the Blizzards come pouring over the boards in front of their bench and skate past us to celebrate their win.
“Come on,” I say to Ryan. He grabs my hand and slowly rises to his feet.
“We should check on Ivanov,” he says. “That wasn’t his fault.”
I throw my arm around him and guide him towards Ivanov and his net. “It wasn’t yours, either.”
“Maybe not,” Ryan says. “But I’m going to be playing this over and over again in my mind on an endless loop for the rest of my life.”
“Or,” I say, jostling him around, “we replace this memory with us winning the cup next year.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Look who’s finally becoming an optimist.”
