Chapter Eleven #2
The crowd erupts in celebration, though noticeably less than we’d hear at a home game.
I’m not ready to celebrate yet.
Miami’s twenty-year-old forward, who was responsible for all their points tonight, cruises onto the ice, calm and deliberate. They don’t call him a wunderkind for nothing.
I’ve studied his footage. They are correct in that assessment.
Anders takes his position, his jersey in dire straits after a physical game. Though they’re all physical when you’re the goalie.
Maybe, like all of us, he’s feeding off the hope rippling through our team right now.
The advice I gave him before the game plays through my head. Don’t just play for your teammates, or even the fans. Play for the people who will care about you, win or lose. The ones who matter most.
It’s the closest I could come to acknowledging his home circumstance without admitting I know yet, or fully understanding the details. But judging by the look he gave me, it meant something to him. Everyone needs a reminder of their “why” sometimes.
The Miami kid puts his puck toward the centerline as he prepares. He lowers into a crouch and skates with barely restrained power, lethal in form as he closes in on his target, his blade tapping right, left, right, left of the puck—
It’s in. Anders committed to the right side a split second too quickly.
I press my molars together.
1-1.
Ivan awaits my cue. I give him the nod.
As forwards go, Ivan is an enforcer. Where Nic is all speed and flash, Ivan is brute strength and fearlessness.
He scored one of our three goals tonight, but he has more career assists than anyone on our team.
He may be a menace off the ice, but no one on the Fury creates more scoring opportunities.
I put him second in this lineup for a reason. While still one of the best shooters we’ve got, he’s the most likely to let emotion overtake him. His personal vendetta against the Sharks goalie—about which he’s been very vocal leading up to this game—will either fuel him or foil him.
The noise falls, and then it explodes.
The crowd goes bananas.
I clap my hand over my face as I send up a thankful prayer.
Tonight, it fueled him.
Jax steps to my side and says nothing. We watch together as Miami’s next player hits the ice to tie the score.
2-2.
We’re still in this.
The pressure is absolute. It is literal as it bears down on me. But I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive.
As our third steps onto the ice, Jax leans in and holds up his phone to block his mouth. If the cameras zoom in on our faces—which they love to do—no one will be able to read his lips. “Jetty? Why are you pulling from the second line?”
Gabriel is a fantastic first-line left winger and the obvious choice to shoot next. But after a particularly rough dustup, he started playing scared.
Jetty, our second-line center, is hungry for it.
Judging by old game tapes, he’s always been underused in the past, playing on the fourth line until I moved him up to second this year.
He brings rookie energy with veteran skill and is eager to prove his injury didn’t slow him down. He could end this now.
If he doesn’t, Mikael will get a shot in sudden death.
“Trust me.” That’s all I can say without getting into the nitty-gritty.
Jax seems to hesitate before nodding.
I need his trust in me to pay off like I’ve never needed anything in my life.
We need this win.
The invisible thread that connects a coach and a player has been weak between me and these men the last two games, a cable too frayed to conduct any sort of electricity.
Tonight is different. I felt that Nic was going to score both times before it slid in. I knew Leo was going to shy away from his usual play style and stay back so that Callum could play an aggressive defense.
Jetty will put that puck where it needs to go.
Glide. Deke. Snap.
Applause and stomps rattle the ground.
I drop to a squat, pretending to fix my shoe as adrenaline floods my every vein.
3-2.
All we have to do is protect.
But protecting is the hardest thing to do.
Composed, I rise to my feet, ready to face it.
Anders readies his stance.
He’s got this. I feel it in my bones. Goalie to former goalie ESP. He’s capable of being an absolute wall, which we saw all night. He can do it one more time.
He’s had enough of the losses. We all have.
Miami’s first-line left winger charges from the center line, keeping tight control of the puck, faking right, drawing back, firing—
Anders drops into a split, throwing himself on the ice, arms outstretched—
Sprawl save.
He did it. It can’t have felt good, throwing his body on the ice, but he did it.
My hands brace my face as the arena erupts in a thunderstorm of noise and claps.
The scoreboard flashes two words this team hasn’t seen in far too long.
FURY WINS!
Vivi nearly tackles me from the side and we hug. The men skate out, pumping fists and smacking each other in affection. Nic does a little dance. Jax stares at the scoreboard, his closed fist pressed against his mouth like he’s in shock.
Leo doesn’t hit the ice. He turns around on the bench, searching.
His eyes meet mine, two bright emeralds in a sea of ice.
He smiles. An actual, honest smile.
And for a searing, supercharged second, I feel like I won twice.