Game Winner (The Games We Play – Season 2)

Chapter One

BAX

A sea of jerseys supporting the Saint Paul Slash fills the arena. The wave of excitement pouring from the hockey fans reminds me of the energy at every rock show I’ve played in and attended.

The yellow, purple, and gray uniforms of the Slash players dot the ice, facing off against the blue, black, and silver of the Calgary Stallions.

There’s a rivalry between the teams, thanks to tough battles during the playoffs over the past few years, and tonight, I hope for a Slash win, for more than one reason.

Standing at the top of our section, waiting for a break in play so we can head to our seats, I glance at my bandmates taking selfies with the rink in the background.

Thanks to the photos, we already missed one chance to go, when the puck flew off of someone’s stick and into the players sitting on the Slash bench.

“Guys, when Sage got us the tickets, I think he expected us to, you know, actually sit in those seats.”

Only ten minutes remain in the first period, and the score is tied one-one. I hate being late, and every minute we’re up here is one less that we’re down there, enjoying the game.

Layne, our singer, waves a hand in my direction.

Beaming a smile at his phone, he pulls me into the frame, and onto the live video he’s streaming from the band’s most popular social media account.

“Hey everybody, Bax here scored us the tickets to the game. An early birthday present for me. Isn’t he the best? ”

Dozens of hearts and comments flood in, and heat blooms in my chest and cheeks. I duck down and press a kiss to his temple before shrugging into the camera. “I only played a small part in that, but I was happy to do it, bro.”

Finally, the whistle blows and play comes to a stop. The usher standing near us, guarding the section, waves for us to go ahead. We trek down the steps of the first level, all the way to the very first row. Our seats are behind the boards, where the glass curves, giving us a great view of the ice.

“This is awesome. We need to thank Sage somehow.” My friendship with Sage, who used to play for the minor league Slash and is now a member of the major league Minneapolis Metros, started thanks to our mutual love of music and it evolved into a very cool relationship that feels more like an extended family.

Gavin, our bassist, lets out a low whistle as he settles into his seat beside me. “I’ve never had front row seats to a game before.”

Neither have I. “Sage insisted, and I’m happy he did.”

Everett, our guitarist, nods toward the goalie in net just to our right. “Bax, you have a good vantage point for looking at your man.”

“What are you talking about?” Even as I say the words, my gaze tracks to Soren Lindstrom, the blond god in goal for the Saint Paul Slash and the Swede who’s starred in my dreams for a year.

Soren pushes his helmet up, grabs his water bottle, and sends a stream of water over his face. He shakes his head, then turns to place the bottle in its holder atop the net. His deep blue eyes meet mine, and my breath catches.

The few times we’ve met, there’s been an energy between us, something bright and sparking. But I haven’t had the chance to have him one on one, all to myself, yet. Too many friends, big personalities, and distractions have dominated our times together.

His lips lift in a tease of a smile. One of his teammates skates past, snatching his attention, and the smile disappears as he drops his mask in place and readies for the face-off in the circle on the opposite side of the ice.

Layne plops into the seat beside mine and hands me his phone as he shrugs out of his coat. The leopard-printed golden fur arm smacks me in the face.

Huffing a laugh, I shove it away then pass him the phone. “That coat is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous or awesome?” Layne waggles his brows and tugs the huge collar up to cover his chin.

He always dresses like he’s about to be photographed. Leather pants, eyeliner, chains, rings, necklaces, wild shirts or coats. A great frontman for our band, but man, does he take a long time getting ready to go anywhere, which is why we arrived late to the game.

Though we’ve left the chilly early December weather outside, the arena is cooler than I expected. I wish now that I hadn’t left my coat in the car. “I might grab a coffee during intermission.”

Hot coffee, hot fries, hot wings, anything to warm me up. Though thoughts of Soren will help with that too.

“Good thinking.” He taps his fist to the back of my hand and turns his attention to the game.

The fast play in front of us, separated by a thin barrier of glass, makes the game come alive, like we’re right in there, a part of the action.

This close, we see the players’ expressions, every grimace and grunt, every chirp and shit-talking quip.

Players shouting to each other, the sound of sticks hitting the puck, of skates carving through the ice, added in with the cheers and calls from the crowd coming from all around us.

I’m in awe of the talent and skill to pivot and change direction at a moment’s notice, to go from backward to forward, and control a tiny rubber puck through a tangle of legs. And of the magic and gymnastics that Soren can do to keep the puck out of his net.

I grew up watching and playing football, and didn’t pay much attention to hockey aside from Layne watching and going to games. But since getting to know some of the guys through Sage, I’ve become hooked.

A whistle blows, and the ref points one of the Stallions to the penalty box. The video of the Stallion tripping the Slash’s captain, Gio Richetti, plays overhead, and the arena fills with boos.

With a quiet breath, Layne taps my hand and leans in. “The Slash’s power play has been on fire so far this season. They need a goal now, in retaliation for what happened to Gio.”

Play resumes, and though I can’t help darting glances at Soren, the command that the Slash have over the outnumbered Stallions is obvious. They dominate.

Layne grabs my hand as they close in on the Stallions goalie, passing with precision and so much speed.

Fittingly, Gio gets his stick on the puck, and with a shot, sends it sailing over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net.

“Goal!” Layne jumps up, pulling me to standing as the arena explodes with fans celebrating, and throws his arms around me. “Happy Birthday to me!”

Laughing, I pat his back then exchange high-fives with Gavin and Everett. “We’re up two to one. Hope we can keep the lead.”

“We have to.” Layne grabs his phone and turns so the rink is at his back. He takes a photo of himself, pointing at the scoreboard. “Whenever I’d come to games around my birthday with my dad, they’d win.”

And that’s one of the reasons I want a Slash win tonight.

Layne’s had a tough year, losing his dad.

I wasn’t sure he’d want to continue the tradition of seeing the Slash for his birthday, but when he mentioned missing his dad more than usual because he always looked forward to sharing Layne’s “birthday game” with him, I knew we needed to do something to make tonight special.

So, I talked to Sage, and he came through.

There’s a minute left on the game clock, so we take our seats. I keep an eye on Layne and an eye on Soren, and barely pay attention to the action on the ice until the buzzer sounds, ending the period.

Soren turns my way, pushes up his helmet, and skates behind his net, pausing to nod at me before following his teammates toward the bench. I watch him go, admiring the strength in his form and the way sweat curls his hair at the back of his neck.

I wonder if he’s coming to the pub after the game tonight. We’re meeting Sage and a few of his hockey player friends to celebrate Layne’s birthday. If so, I hope we’ll have a chance to talk.

Layne smacks my forearm. “We should try to get Sage backstage passes for Winter Fest as a thank you for the tickets. I want us to debut a new song there. Two months is enough time to polish one of the ones we’ve been working on.”

“We can try for the passes. I’ll reach out to the organizers tomorrow.

” I’m not surprised his mind is on the music, even while watching the game.

He’s always in band mode, and his attention jumps from one thing to the next.

At this point, I’m used to how his mind works.

We’ve been friends since he moved next door the summer before third grade.

At fifteen, we started a band, and what began as a lot of talk and little skill turned into eleven years of creating music, various band iterations, and chaos.

But always, friendship. When we formed Flame Shade with Everett and Gavin, I wasn’t sure if things would last because the four of us are too alike in ways that have sunk other bands, but we gel like I never expected.

Everett leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees to join the conversation. “I like the one we were working on yesterday. It’s fast and loud and completely us.”

“Good idea,” Gavin says. Layne stares at the Zamboni entering the opposite end of the ice.

Anyone who doesn’t know him would think he isn’t paying any attention, but in reality he has at least a hundred tabs open in his brain at any one time.

Gavin keeps talking, “We should throw in a ballad to switch things up. Layne, the one you showed us the other day, the lyrics really hit me.”

“I’m fine with including a few new songs, but we should start and end with fan favorites.” I pull up the notes app on my phone to review the set list we’ve been batting around. “We’re not the headliners, so we have to be mindful of the time we have on stage.”

Layne drags his attention from the Zamboni’s slow laps around the rink. His pale blue glance is withering, and he’s clearly annoyed that I’m trying to reign things in. “I know we’ll have to narrow down our choices when we find out the length of the set.”