After Coach came to my apartment the other night, I’ve done anything I can to show the guys that the first two games were a fluke. I even met with Troy after practice, told him I’d do whatever it took to get the guys to buy into me. He simply told me, “Be the guy that kicked our ass the last three seasons.”
So, that’s what I’m here to do.
Troy bangs on a banner, BETTER NOT BITTER in thick black font, at the top of the walkway. At first, I thought the saying was shit, kind of cringe. But I’ve come around. My old team was much more results oriented, but in a way that created more competition among teammates instead of teamwork.
This team believes in each other in a way that’s fucking honest. Tonight, I feel like I have the most to prove. I need to show them I have what it takes. I’m not a charity case; I have something that makes this team better. There’s no point thinking about the NHL if I can’t get my shit together and contribute here.
We skate out following our captain. Troy takes a lap around the ice, waving his stick in the air. Every single member follows him. I’m standing behind Leo—something that isn’t lost on me. At my old team, everything was driven by seniority or whoever beat someone that day. At GreatLakes U, everyone just falls in line and it feels like they don’t give a fuck about the small stuff.
It feels like they might give me a shot tonight. I’ve busted my balls this week and I think I've earned it.
Leo turns, smirking at me. “Ready to give ‘em hell, Lane?” he asks, and he hits the sign before skating out.
I take a slow breath, trying to calm the nerves, hear myself think.You can do this. This is the only thing you’ve been good at.
Smacking the sign, I mutter the phrase to myself and skate out. The second my blades hit the ice, the roars feel like they could crack the boards. Fans bang on the glass as we skate, and we let them welcome us to Dempsey Arena. I’m surprised when I see fans wearing my number. My jersey.
Troy’s waiting for us and giving us all high fives as we finish our lap. When it’s my turn, he stops me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Maxwell, I meant it when I said I’d rather play with you than against you. Don’t make me fucking regret it.”
“You got it,” I promise, letting his words add more fuel to my fire.
When the puck drops, everything locks into place. First shift, I pick a pass clean out of the neutral zone and get it back to Troy so he can take the first shot on goal. Players tap their sticks against the boards, a rhythm that matches the thump of my heartbeat. It gets blocked, but the way the crowd held their breath and cheered when I stole the puck made me smile for the first time. Like really smile. I feels like the weight that’s been pushing me down since our first two games is thrown off—nowhere to be found.
During a later shift, I dangle past their defense, seeing an opening I knew would be there a moment before it was. I’ve always had this way of seeing plays develop; it’s probably one of the reasons I’m a nightmare on the ice. Most players have the physical aspect of the game down, but when it comes to patience and plays, it’s like trying to teach someone with no rhythm how to play the piano. I knew the hole was going to be there—knew I could beat the other player there. I pass the puck to Leo,wanting to create space for the shot I’m picturing in my mind. I put my head down and viciously skate, gaining as much speed as I can, and lock eyes with Leo, who is about to pass the puck back. I stare at him, willing him to put the puck in front of me.
And he does.
I don’t hesitate. As soon as the puck’s in front of me, I pull my stick back and fire. The puck whistles past the goalie and buries itself in the back of the net. The whole place erupts.
The lights. The siren. The guys. They all gather around me, hyping me up. The first person I see is Troy. He gets right in my face and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him like this. He’s like a frayed nerve ending but still in control.
“FUCK YES, MAXWELL. That’s how you do it!” He screams as the guys continue to mob me. The fans are on their feet, hugging each other, clapping for me, and this might be the moment I’ve won them over.
Coach pounds his hand on the glass. He doesn’t say anything when I look at him, but he claps and points at me.
This feeling? This right here? I’ll never get sick of it. Ever.
I look to see Cora standing behind him. I’m not sure what I expected, but her smiling and clapping for me the way she is was not it. Her face is bright, her dark hair straight and dancing over her shoulders. She wears a Great Lakes blue blazer and looks like she fucking belongs on the bench.
Right now? I feel like I might belong here, too.
Therearetwominutesleft in the final period and we’re tied 3-3. I haven’t scored in this period yet but I’ve still contributed.
Matty has been kicking ass, blocking shots left and right. You can feel the tension pull across the entire rink, goal to goal. Everyone is holding their breath, waiting for the breakaway, the shot on goal, the siren—everyone is waiting for the win.
Every shift matters. We’re running out of time and the seconds feel quicker than normal. The other team steals the puck from Troy and skate toward our goal, and I put myself in front of another other player. I’m anticipating the move, his break, the tell. I’ve played against him for a while; I know he loves to try and sneak left. So, I fake that I’m going right. And he bites.
I swipe the puck and quickly get it back to Troy. He’s able to shake a defender, who is surprised by the quick possession switch. Troy practically dances on the ice and a collective gasp fills the arena when he squares up with the goalie.
The sirens go off for the goal only a few seconds before the buzzer wails.
He fucking made it! He scored. Otters win 4-3.
We crowd in front of the bench and everyone celebrates. It’s loud enough to make my ears ring later and I couldn’t care any less.
“That was one hell of a pass!” Leo yells, pointing at me.
Troy jumps in. “I thought you were going to bring it up the ice.”
