I weave between lanes like I’m in a video game where the stakes are my career, and my life for that matter. A delivery truck lurches forward, missing me by millimeters. A bus roars by me, its headlights temporarily blinding me while I navigate by pure instinct and prayer.
Times Square is Dante’s tenth circle, the one he didn’t write about because it was too horrifying. Flashing billboards assault my retinas while unsuspecting tourists step into my path.
“Move, move outta the way, move it or lose it, everybody!” I shout.
A delivery guy on a motorized bike screams profanities as he nearly clips me. I don’t have time to respond in kind. I’m a man on a mission, wearing tights, racing through Manhattan on a device that likely has flowers on it somewhere.
Sixth Avenue approaches, and I blow through a yellow light. Madison Square Garden appears like a beacon of hope or possibly just a place to suffer a final humiliation. I skid to a stop, tires screeching along the pavement as I burst through the players’ entrance. The sprint through the corridors becomes a blur of stunned security guards doing double-takes, staff members questioning their eyesight, and at least one janitor who drops his mop.
“Was that LeClerc dressed as a…ballerina?”
I ignore everything except forward momentum, yanking the locker room door open to find my team preparing for overtime. The room goes silent. Every head turns with synchronized confusion.
Dewey, still drenched from his third-period heroics, looks me up and down.
“Uh,” he manages. “Are you wearing a cape?” I rush to my stall. Gloves. Pads. Jersey. I transform from ballet dancer to hockey player in record time. I grab my helmet, snap it on, and race toward the ice with my team, leaving a trail of tulle, confusion, and a touch of glitter in my wake.
The game isn’t over yet. Madison Square Garden awaits, and in the stands, twenty thousand people stand anxiously, possessing no idea that their overtime entertainment just arrived via a hot pink scooter.
Chapter Forty-Five
I burst onto the ice, my legs burning and heart pounding, but my focus is sharper than ever. I’ve fought for this moment. Every night spent wondering if I was finished has all led to this.
Overtime.
Win, and we punch our ticket to the playoffs. Lose, and the season—the comeback, everything I’ve worked for—is over.
I take my first shift, and it’s as if I never left the ice.
A Spartan defenseman corrals the puck at the blue line, winding up for a shot. I scream down the ice and throw my shoulder into him, sending him sprawling onto the ice. The puck skitters loose. The crowd roars, a deafening, pulsating sound that shakes the Garden to its foundation.
I battle along the boards, digging my stick blade under a tangle of skates. The Spartans fight to clear it, but I brace, twist my hips, and grind the puck free, flicking it to Dewey. The play cycles. The seconds tick. Bodies crash into each other.
Dewey and I skate back to the bench, breathless.
Dewey spits onto the ice. “I’ve been seeing something, Clerky.”
I turn to him, wiping sweat from my visor.
“Every time the puck gets rimmed around, their strong-side d-man pinches hard,” Dewey says. “And their weak-side d-man sags way down below the hashmarks.”
My eyes narrow.
Dewey continues as he squirts water into his mouth. “If the puck comes around my side, I’m just gonna angle my blade and chip it high off the glass. That puck’s gonna drop right behind both defensemen. If you’re flying through the middle lane, it’s a breakaway.”
I nod slowly, my breath steadying.
We lock eyes.
This is it.
Our next shift, the Spartans storm into our zone, fast, lethal, cutting through the defense with crisp, hard passes. I dig in, tracking my man.
Then my skate catches an edge.
I go down hard, my hip slamming against the ice. I scramble to recover.
The Spartans have an opening. A forward barrels toward the net, wide open, uncontested. My breath locks in my throat. The Spartan player winds up. Slapshot. Point blank.
