“That stopped being an explanation two weeks ago,” Roysy says.
“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. He leans in close to my ear. Closer than he needs to. “Just admit it. You deserve to be here. You have great hands.”
I swallow. Oh, Ryan. You have no idea.
Ryan
When the lamp lights again, I turn to look at Brandon. He looks stunned. His mouth is hanging open and he drops his stick onto the ice.
With his hands now free, he brings them to his head and just continues to stare right at me. At this moment, he looks so much like the kid I knew eight years ago celebrating goals made against his brother in the driveway. The nostalgia of it all almost swallows me whole.
Except he’s not a kid. He’s grown into a man. One I want to pick up and squeeze and throw over my shoulder.
Which is exactly what I do when I rush towards him. I lean down and scoop him up by his hips. He yelps when he finds himself hanging over me and one of his fists thumps me on my back.
“You fucking beauty!” I scream out as I put him back down onto his feet.
He’s laughing and grinning from ear to ear. It’s a shame this didn’t happen during a home game, and he could experience having hats rain down on him instead of a chorus of groans from the crowd.
“Baby’s first hat trick!” Danton yells as he rushes us and wraps us both in a hug. We’re quickly joined by O’Shea and Clemmersand even Ivanov is escaping his home in the crease to come celebrate. Together the five of us watch him make his way down the ice taking the long strides his goalie gear relegates him to.
“Holy shit!” he yells out when he arrives and immediately hugs Brandon. This is a new move for him. I guess Momma B was a good influence.
Unfortunately, our celebration doesn’t get to last long. The refs are circling, looking to put an end to our fun.
“Ivanov! Get back in your crease,” one of them demands.
Ivanov pats Brandon’s helmet with his gloved hand one more time, then heads back down the ice as he was told.
“Let’s go,” another ref says to the rest of us. “Don’t make me slap your team with a delay of game penalty.”
“Aww, come on, man,” Danton says. He pulls Brandon into his side. “Baby popped his hat trick cherry tonight.”
At Danton’s words, Brandon turns as red as, well, a cherry. And I’m loving every shade of it.
“Nice job, kid,” the ref says to Brandon, then takes his attention back to Danton. “But if we don’t get this game going again, we’re gonna have a riot. This crowd is getting hostile.”
I look around the arena. He’s right. Fans are booing, but not at us. They’re booing their own team. A few Chicago jerseys have been thrown onto the ice, landing amongst the Chicago players, who are all hanging their heads. It’s getting ugly. It should make me smile. Kennedy Sr is getting his just deserts. But the fans are taking their frustrations out on the players when all that energy should be aimed at the man looking down at all of this from his office in the mezzanine.
I feel bad for the Chicago Broad Wings players, which is keeping me from taking too much joy in all of this. It’s not their fault that as a team they’ve been horribly mismanaged. It’s not their fault that they got unwillingly dragged into a father-son dispute for the ages. All they want to do is play hockey.
Heading back to the bench, I focus my attention on Coach Chris. He’s picked up on the same thing I have. While the rest ofour team congratulates Brandon, like he deserves, Coach Chris keeps his eyes focused forward towards center ice.
It’s at this moment, the jumbotron hanging above the fray begins to play a video highlighting Coach Chris. Highlighting isn’t the right word. This video is a scathing reminder to the fans in the building that their beloved coach is now standing behind the visitors’ bench instead of theirs.It’s a poor attempt at trying to paint Coach Chris as a traitor.
Unfortunately, it works, as the ire of the crowd turns back towards us and our leader. But true to his form, Coach Chris stands stoic.
That doesn’t keep me from feeling anger about this on his behalf. A few weeks ago, this was his barn filled with his players, cheered by these fans. Now, they hate everyone in here, including their own. It didn’t need to be this way.
“Hey!” I say to my team as the third line climbs over the boards to take the next face off. “We’ve already got this. We’ve won this game. The score is four–zero.” I point up to the area in the arena reserved for Kennedy Sr and the rest of his flunkies. “Don’t let him take this night away from us. Don’t let him ruin this moment with his games. The Mules have arrived, and we’re taking the Broad Wings’ place in the Western Conference.”
“Yes!” Danton yells out his agreement with a clap to my shoulder.
My eyes catch Brandon’s. He’s glowing as he yells, “Playoffs, here we come!”
Getting back to the hotel after the game, moods are still high, and adrenaline is still pumping through our veins. Even Coach Chris seems to be breathing a little easier now that we’ve gotten away from the Broad Wings’ stadium and his wife, Michelle, has joined us.
I don’t know what she just said to Brandon, but whatever it is, it has him glowing bright pink. And like a moth to a flame,I feel myself drawn to him. Before I know it, I’m standing in between him and Michelle.
