Addison shortens the bench. The starters are playing the rest of this game.
Cole is on my left. Adrian at center. The three of us on the ice together for the final period of the final game of our college careers. The rink in Connecticut where Cole and I first skated together is three hundred miles south. The rink in Milan where Papà wanted me is four thousand miles east.
The puck drops, and my stick is already moving.
Wisconsin dumps it deep. Declan plays it behind the net. I pick it up and start the breakout, up the wall, through the neutralzone, my legs driving even though they are begging me to stop. Cole is ahead of me. Two strides. He crosses the blue line and drags the defender wide, opening the lane I need.
The pass goes tape to tape.
Cole walks in on the goalie. Dekes. The goalie bites. Cole slides it five-hole, and the puck is in the net, and the horn is sounding, and Cole’s arms are up, and I am skating toward him so fast the collision nearly takes us both off our feet.
His arms close around me. My face hits his neck. Sweat, cold, Cole underneath the gear. Sixteen thousand people are screaming, and his mouth is close to my ear through the gear.
“Last one,” he says. “Last one on this ice.”
My throat closes. My glove tightens on his jersey.
The team hits us from all sides. Bodies, sticks, the wild, beautiful collision of men who just took the lead in a championship game. Somewhere in the crush, I’m swallowed by jerseys and gloves. Cole’s hand is fisted in my jersey and he is holding on.
2–1. Twelve minutes left.
Wisconsin pushes. Hard. Their top line comes over the boards on every shift, throwing everything at Declan, shots coming from everywhere. Declan is a wall. He makes three saves in thirty seconds that have no business staying out of the net. His glove. His pad. His blocker. The building is on its feet.
I block a shot with my shin. The pain goes sharp and bright, and I keep skating because stopping is something I can do in June. Cole clears the puck. I pick it up. We cycle. The clock keeps draining.
Six minutes.
Five.
Four.
Addison calls a timeout. We huddle at the bench. Water bottles. Shoulders bent over sticks. Gloves tight around sticks.Breath tearing in and out of men who have already emptied the tank.
“Hold the line,” Addison says. “Three more minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds. Cole looks at me across the huddle. His face is red. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His eyes are clear.
I nod.
He nods.
We take the ice.
Wisconsin pulls their goalie with ninety seconds left. Six attackers. The puck cycles in our zone, boards, point, slot, boards. I block a passing lane with my stick. Cole ties up their center along the wall. Adrian wins a battle in the corner and chips it out.
The puck slides to center ice.
Empty net at the far end.
Cole picks it up. Open ice spreads ahead of him. The empty net waits two hundred feet away. He could shoot. One shot down the ice and into the open cage, and the game would be over, the championship his.
He holds the shot.
Waits.
I fill the lane beside him, stride for stride, the two of us crossing center ice the way we have crossed every surface for six years. Hallways. Walkways. Locker rooms. The twelve feet of hardwood between our bedroom doors.
Stride for stride.
