Me
You know exactly what
Mackie
You look impossibly hot in that gameday suit btw
Me
Your dad is literally 10 feet away from me right now
Mackie
I can’t compliment my boyfriend?
Me
Not when I’m trying to avoid getting murdered before the biggest game of my life
I lock my phone and put it face down on the shelf above mystall. I need to stop thinking about this and start thinking about hockey.
We’reup 1-0 after the first on a Jack redirect that’s pure instinct—the kind of goal that only a twenty-year veteran makes because the timing isn’t something you learn, it accumulates over a thousand games and lives in your hands the way breathing lives in your lungs. Rodriguez has the primary assist and he’s been playing with this reckless energy since the playoffs started, skating like a guy who has nothing to lose. I catch myself scanning the stands and stopping at the family box. She’s up there somewhere.
Second period we score two more. Luca stops everything. 3-0. Shutout. We’re up 2-0 in the series.
My phone buzzes in the locker room.
Mackie
two more
I’m so proud of this team
and you
Me
I didn’t do anything
Mackie
you were ready. That’s doing something.
Games3 and 4 are a road trip. The plane is quieter than usual—guys have headphones on, some watching film on tablets, and the card games that usually start before we’re off the ground don’t happen.Rodriguez is next to me making notes on his phone, which is something I’ve never seen him do before.
“You’re studying,” I say.
“Juliette showed me her prep process for competitions. She annotates everything.” He doesn’t look up. “Athletes are athletes, Z. Doesn’t matter what the ice is for.”
Game 3 is a war. Away building, hostile crowd, everything faster and harder. They score first and the noise is deafening. Luca makes two saves in the first five minutes that keep it 1-0. We tie it in the second and then score three in the third and the crowd goes quiet.
With twelve minutes left and the score 4-1, Barrett looks at me. “Almardon. You’re closing this out. Luca needs the rest.”
Luca taps my pads on the way out and says “all yours”. Suddenly, I’m standing in an NHL playoff crease in a hostile building and I can hear my own breathing inside my mask. The ice feels different under my skates—more real, like it knows what's at stake even if that makes no sense. The first shot comes thirty seconds later. I read the release off the winger's blade, track the angle, and my glove finds it. The sound of puck hitting leather is the only thing in the world for one second, and then it's not, and I'm already resetting for the next one. Second shot is low glove, I kick it wide, the defenseman clears. Four shots in twelve minutes. 4-1. Final. We’re up 3-0.
At the hotel I check my phone.
Mackie
