Brayden
seven
There were ten minutes left in the final period. Rune had the Grizzlies locked at zero, and they were beyond desperate. Being one down during a pre-season game wasn’t the start any team wanted, especially not one who’d ranked as high as Vancouver’s newest team had last season.
We were steady. Rock solid. But the Grizzlies were bullies, and they were waging a war of attrition against us. We only had minutes to go. It might as well have been a lifetime. A slipup by any one of us would even the score, and we’d go into overtime. That wasn’t going to fly.
In the pre-season, we used each game to prepare for the ones that counted.
This was game four, and Coach had been swapping lines, evaluating how I worked with the rest of the first line, and whether we were destined to stay together.
It looked like our training in the off season had been worth it because he hadn’t dropped me to second.
He was giving the other lines more ice time.
Rune and Austin had equal time on goal, though, so anything could still happen.
During training we’d worked on our speed, tearing up and down the ice.
We’d done drills until our legs couldn’t hold us up anymore and our hands were cramped, locked into position around our sticks.
Our hard work was showing. We were fast as whips.
Compared to Vancouver, we danced elegantly on our skates, low and fast, out maneuvering them on every pass.
The accuracy drills we’d practiced were paying off too.
When our sticks connected, the crack was as beautiful as the whistle the puck made when it met its mark—tape to tape.
But the Grizzlies were playing like it was game seven of the Stanley Cup Final.
They were fighting hard and dirty, making up for a lack of finesse with their brawn.
Fights happened in hockey, but no one got this worked up over a pre-season game, and the way they were crunching us into the boards instead of using skill to intercept the puck felt like they were making it personal.
It was taking its toll. Hux had gone down hard in the first minute of the period.
He’d landed on his back and spun like a turtle for forty feet before he’d been able to stop his slide inches short of the boards.
Dazed and winded, but not otherwise injured, he’d shaken off his dizziness, caught his breath, and skated straight back into the fray.
Coach had ordered a line change, and within seconds Kreutzmann had been slammed against the boards near our benches.
The crunching of bone or his pads—probably both—was audible from my spot fifteen feet away.
We were cycling through our lines, trying to avoid injuries and keep our lead at the same time.
Gauthier skated over to take the face-off after Hux’s goal. The Grizzlies’ center snarled, and Gauthier chuckled in response, not remotely fearful of the bully on blades in front of him.
It was the split-second before the puck drop, and I basked in the roar of the crowd.
I breathed in the chill of the artificial ice, inhaling the ozone smell of the refrigerant that was as familiar as my own skin.
I visualized the weight of the disc against my stick, the perfect passes and a goal.
It was my ritual, a manifestation I envisioned every time the puck dropped.
I was wearing different colors this season, but I was home. I had no doubt about it.
I’d never played with openly bi or pan players before.
I’d always been the only out one. It hadn’t been easy.
The Blizzards adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” kind of approach.
Everyone knew I was bi and married to a man, but no one ever asked about it.
I didn’t give any details either. He was only ever invited to events the team knew he wouldn’t attend.
Coming to the Seals was like joining a pride parade—all the acceptance and love and none of the trash hate.
Every player on the team was accepting. Not one of them treated Hux, Minns, or Rune any different to the other players.
There were only a few select people who knew about Gauthier—I probably wasn’t supposed to know, but it was hard to miss when his kid called his two “roommates” variations of “Dad.” I saw how much the guys respected him.
If he ever chose to come out, I knew they’d be supportive, just like the Seals had welcomed me with open arms.
My trade was a last-minute change that would have caused hiccups anywhere but the Seals.
There was always an adjustment period, weeks where we learned to read each other’s tells.
But aside from those first few days, it wasn’t like that at the Seals.
By the time we were ready for the preseason, it was as if we’d known each other for a decade.
Of course, it helped that Hewitt and I played similarly.
He’d been my hero when I was a pimple-faced teenager, and I’d tried to emanate his playing style.
We were the grinders, the reliable ones who were there for our teammates when they needed us.
Play between Gauthier, Hux, and me was natural from the moment we’d hit the ice together.
Gauthier was fast, and Hux set up the plays.
He was the risk-taker, the player who was three steps ahead of everyone else on the ice.
Together, we flowed like water, finding the path of least resistance and becoming unstoppable.
We’d worked hard from the moment I was transferred, spending hours every day playing catchup, practicing drills, and playing pick-up hockey until we read one another instinctively. It said a lot that we were leading one-zero against a team who’d had a relatively stable lineup for a few seasons.
This spot at this time—playing as the starting right wing for the Seals—was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The face-off.
Gauthier was as quick as lightning, seizing the puck before it even hit the ice.
He one-timed it to Hux.
Hux was already moving, streaking down the straightaway, setting up the play on goal for us.
Gauthier was in pursuit.
He skated hard up to his right, then banked tight on the turn behind the net, shooting out the other side.
I was between Hux and Gauthier as I dodged, trying to keep a pass line open.
The Grizzlies’ defensive players converged.
But Minns was there. He cleared the line for Hux, sending players scattering as he charged through, keeping them away from his brother. It was like watching a forcefield in motion, repelling everything except Seals’ players.
I saw the pass coming before Hux made a move. We’d practiced it endlessly. I didn’t need to think. The moves were burned into my muscle memory now.
I skated away, doing the opposite of Gauthier. He’d draw them in for a fake-out, and I’d take the pass.
Hux’s stick connected.
The crack of tape meeting rubber echoed around the ice, piercing through the roar of the crowd.
The puck flew over the ice, whizzing along in a rocket-powered pass.
Perfection.
Hard and fast in the opposite direction than where they’d anticipated, there was no way for the Grizzlies to get close enough to intercept.
Curses and glares shot around the ice. They were frustrated, and it was showing. I had the puck, but the Grizzlies’ defense kept their focus on Hux and the net. Forwards crowded around Gauthier, playing defensively. I grinned.
Their game had changed.
We’d broken them.
Mentally, they were collapsing.
Instead of playing to win, they were playing to minimize the loss.
My path back to Hux was blocked. In the space of time between seconds and as I hurtled from the blue line to the crease, I analyzed the passes. I could take a shot on goal, but the angle wasn’t right. It would be an easy one for their goalie to defend. Gauthier wasn’t open either.
Mironov appeared out of nowhere, streaking up the inside. He was wide open. The Grizzlies took the bait, leaving Gauthier to cover Mironov.
I didn’t hesitate.
I slapped a wrister to Gauthier deep in the offensive zone.
It was a rookie error on Vancouver’s part, but we’d take it.
Gauthier caught the puck on his stick and slung it straight for the net. High and tight, it sailed straight over the goalie’s left shoulder into the tiny gap between his pads and glove.
The puck hit twine.
The buzzer wailed.
We’d done it. We’d beaten them.
Elation filled me, and I threw my hands up, my stick high above my head.
Two-zero. With only minutes to spare.
Our first shutout of the season.
I high-fived my captain, my grin around my mouthguard so wide, my cheeks hurt.
“Fuck yeah,” I hollered.
“Nice assist,” he yelled over the sound of the screaming fans.
“Nice goal,” I shouted back, then laughed when the Grizzlies’ number eight defenseman glared daggers at us.
“Aw, y’all’re havin’ a hard time?” I teased.
“Fuck you,” he grunted.
I looked him up and down, my movements exaggerated, then licked my lips. “You offerin’ to get on your knees for me, pretty boy?”
He skated to a stop right in front of me and threw down his stick.
I smirked. “Right now? Sweet.”
I pretended to go for my shorts. His face reddened and his eyes hardened.
He was like a cartoon character whose head was about to explode. He inched closer, looking down on me like I was shit on his shoe.
But before he could throw down, Mironov was between us, pushing me back. I laughed as he separated me from the hulking giant on the opposing team. “You run your mouth, Miller, and you get in trouble,” he said, his Russian accent heavy.
I sighed overdramatically. “All the time.” I grinned shamelessly and held my arms out in a “What can you do?” gesture.
Mironov shoved at my chest and chuckled. “You shut your mouth sometimes.”
“Eh, I leave that up to my husband,” I teased as we skated into position, ready for the face-off again.
I flicked my gaze to the stands where I knew Spencer was sitting. Knowing he was watching lit a fire under me. I wanted to be the best for him. Knowing he was proud of me was my catnip.