Chapter 6
VASILY
Tonight was the night—my first game since I was injured.
It was only a PHL game, but it was still a hockey game. After all these weeks of itching to play again, I’d take it.
Coach Marks wanted me on the top line, which was where I’d be for most of my stint in Everett, but he was still keeping me on the third tonight. I was fine with that.
Or, well, I thought I was.
When we were almost to the end of the first period and I’d had less than ninety seconds of ice time—fuck, I was even twitchier than I’d been when I couldn’t play at all. I hated being on the bench.
It didn’t help that tonight’s top line wasn’t having a good game.
Almost every pass attempt ended up being a turnover.
Four separate scoring chances had turned into such huge blunders that they very nearly became goals against. And that was to say nothing of the three— three —breakaways that did result in goals against.
After a disastrous turnover resulted in a shot on goal—but thanks to Hoskins, not a shot in goal—I turned a pleading look on Coach. He met my gaze, his frustration evident in his eyes and in the way he chewed his gum like it owed him money.
I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
But he did send my line out next, and though we didn’t score, we kept the action in our offensive zone for the whole shift.
Fewer opportunities to score against us.
A chance for Hoskins to take a much-needed breather.
We were still down 3-0, but it was only the first period.
We had time to tilt the ice. Right now, we just had to get to the buzzer, then regroup in the locker room.
During intermission, Coach announced he was changing up the lines for the next period.
“Abashev, Wils, and Cams,” he said, “you’re top line.”
The guys who were getting bumped down didn’t even look upset or embarrassed. If anything, they all looked relieved. I got it—everyone had bad nights, and sometimes getting temporarily demoted was the best thing for the whole team.
Coach didn’t ream them out, either. He probably knew he didn’t need to.
They weren’t stupid—they knew they didn’t have it together tonight.
He did have a quiet conversation with the three of them while we were all hydrating and resting, but he seemed calm.
I suspected it was less “what the fuck is wrong with you three?” and “you need to get your heads out of your asses,” and more, “I know you guys can do better” and “just focus during your shifts next period.”
I liked that about Coach. This wasn’t a youth team, and we were all expected to play like the pros that we were, but even at the NAPH level, bad nights happened.
Some coaches—including this one—seemed to know when screaming at someone was the most effective approach, and when it was better to address it calmly.
It worked, too. When that line was out for one of their shifts early in the second period, they were crisper and more focused this time. Hell, they turned it around enough that they probably could have continued as the top line for the rest of the game.
Coach kept that pressure off them, though, and my line became the top line.
I felt for the guys who were having a shit night, but I couldn’t lie—I was glad to be getting off the damn bench. I even found myself being less careful of my knee. I still didn’t push myself quite to full speed, but all thoughts of babying my leg were gone.
As we set up for a faceoff, the opposing center—who looked about fourteen—stared at me with wide eyes. I grinned, and I could almost hear something shorting out in his starstruck brain.
Hey, if he was going to play in the big leagues, he was going to have to go up against much bigger stars than me. Might as well learn to deal with it now.
I won the faceoff more easily than I should have—the kid’s coach would probably have words with him over that later. Not my problem.
I whipped the puck to Cams, who snapped it to Pettersson, one of our defensemen.
We cycled the puck, closing in on the net as we wore their skaters down.
Across the zone from me, Taylor was creeping toward the faceoff dot, away from the goal but clearly setting himself up for a scoring chance.
Two of San Francisco’s skaters were zeroed in on him.
There was a defenseman on me, but he didn’t seem to notice that every time I released the puck, I’d inch myself closer to the crease.
My skates were nearly in the blue paint when I locked eyes with Petters, who was close to the neutral zone. Taylor had the puck and was conspicuously positioning himself to fire on goal, which had the attention of most of the opposing skaters.
I nodded to Petters. He smacked his stick on the ice to call for the puck, and without even looking, Taylor passed it to him. The opposing skaters weren’t expecting that, and in the split second it took for them to change their tactics, Petters passed to me.
I tipped it into the back of the goal before anyone even knew what was happening.
I held up my stick and shouted, the elation nearly knocking me off my feet. PHL or not, I was back . I was playing, and I’d scored. Fuck yeah.
The crowd was smaller than an NAPH crowd, but they were still loud and raucous. My four teammates hugged me and smacked my helmet and pads.
“Nice one, Chevy!” Cams said.
I grinned and fist-bumped with them. Then I grabbed Petters around the shoulders. “Perfect assist!”
The kid blushed brighter than the goal light.
When I met Taylor’s gaze and saw that brilliant smile, I wondered if I was blushing too.
Then we were off to the bench for fist bumps with the rest of the team before we took our seats and let the next line go out.
As I was sitting down, a subtle twinge in my knee cut through the elation of scoring.
You’re coming back from an injury, Abashev. Don’t push it.
Except we were still down by two. The game was 3-1 now, with thirty-five minutes left to play. We weren’t digging ourselves out of this hole unless it was all hands on deck.
My knee would just have to deal with it.
The next two shifts only racked up a single shot on goal between them, but they successfully kept the other team hemmed into their defensive zone.
Not only could San Francisco not hold possession long enough to break out, they couldn’t peel off for a line change either.
One of the defensemen did manage to get to the bench, but the other D-man and the three forwards were fucked.
When they finally did get the puck headed toward our end, Brown got in the way of the player who’d been meant to catch the pass into the neutral zone. He didn’t make contact, so no interference call, but he kept him from getting to the puck, which went sailing down to the other end.
I could almost feel the “goddammit” coming off the skaters when the ref blew the whistle for icing. They were all completely gassed, but they were still stuck on the ice. Their only chance to rest was the handful of seconds it took for us to swap out all five of our skaters for fresh bodies.
As we set up for this faceoff, the opposing center was dripping with sweat and breathing so hard he was shaking. His visor was fogged up around the edges, and he looked absolutely miserable.
Been there, done that. Nothing worse than not being able to get off the ice after a long, relentless shift. I felt for the kid, but not so much that I wasn’t going to take full advantage of his and his teammates’ exhaustion.
Fortunately for them, it was only fifteen seconds between the puck dropping and the whistle blowing, this time allowing them a desperately needed line change.
Un fortunately for them, that whistle was because I’d put another puck behind their netminder.
3-2. Fuck yeah.
Coach kept us out, too, since we’d only played a handful of seconds. On the way back from fist-bumping our teammates on the bench, Taylor smacked my shoulder. “Seven minutes left in the period. Think you have a natural hatty in you?”
I wasn’t sure what gave me a bigger surge of energy—the prospect of notching a natural hat trick, or the way Taylor’s eyes danced as he suggested it.
Either way, I was suddenly determined to do exactly that. My focus had been digging us out of the hole we were in on the scoreboard, but now I wanted that hatty so bad I could taste it.
“Let’s do it,” I said, and his smile got even brighter.
Hell yeah. I was doing this.
I did, too. With just fourteen seconds left in the second period, after a dagger of a stretch pass from Taylor, I one-timed the puck under the netminder’s pad.
I hadn’t had a natural hat trick since major juniors.
Hatties, yes, but especially in the NAPH, it was hard as fuck to get all three goals in the same period.
So what if this was the PHL? A natural hatty was a natural hatty, and I celebrated like it had just won us the cup.
So did my teammates… especially my gorgeous linemate, who was grinning from ear to ear, unaware of what that was doing to my balance.
But the real celly came in the third period. I assisted on the game-winning goal, and the absolute elation on Taylor’s face when he realized his shot had gone in? When the goal light came on and we had the lead after being down 3-0? That huge, gleaming smile?
I wouldn’t be forgetting that any time soon.