12. Chapter 11 #2
Mason looks at me, slightly confused, but then he nods. "I'll pass it along."
I finished getting dressed, and within minutes, there's no more room in my head for fathers or trades or anything except the only language I've ever spoken fluently.
Hockey.
Coach gathers us in the tunnel, one hand on the wall, the other gripping his iPad.
"Alright, boys! Listen up. This team is fast, they're physical, and they think we're a gimmick." He scans the huddle surrounding him, then his steely gaze lands on me, and stays right there when he says, "So get out there! And show us what you're worth."
The guys bang their sticks against the concrete. I just hold Coach's stare.
Message received, Coach. Loud and clear.
The tunnel swallows us one by one, skates ringing off concrete, the gold letters on the wall shining in my eyes.
THEY CAME FOR THE BEACH. WE STAYED FOR THE FIGHT.
Declan skates out first, then Mason is at his shoulder. The roar is deafening as we hit the ice together, the Bear Cave detonating.
"Fuck yes!" I shout, raising my stick alongside my brothers, gliding across the rink at speed.
The three of us stand at center ice for the opening ceremony, side by side, and the noise goes nuclear.
Declan on my left, Mason on my right, the Bear Cave shaking itself apart around us.
Three brothers in blue and gold, shoulder to shoulder, and every single one of those twelve thousand fans is on their feet screaming for us.
The Morrison Brothers.
That's the brand.
That's the attraction Josie created that no spreadsheet in the world can manufacture.
Say whatever you want about my stats, put whatever numbers you want in whatever column makes you feel smart, but whenever we hit the ice… the Bear Cave explodes.
The jumbotron explodes with graphics, the recorded bear roar shakes the building hard enough to ripple every drink in the house, and somewhere up in the suite, Morgan Morrison is holding a homemade sign that says UNCLE BECK OWES ME A GOAL.
Rink-side, the Madden Gala VIPs are living their best lives behind the glass in the front row of the Frostline section, one of them wearing a brand new jersey with the tags probably still on it.
I skate past during warmups and flip a puck over the glass to them, and the whole section reacts like I've handed over a winning lottery ticket.
This. This is what she can't put in a spreadsheet.
I find the suite window, and even from the ice I can pick out the sleek dark bob, the navy blazer, the tablet glowing in her hands.
Darcy's standing between Josie and Rose, a glass of white wine in one hand, the tablet balanced in the other.
Josie's stealing from Rose's popcorn bucket while Rose swats at her fingers without looking away from the ice.
Darcy sees me looking up and I swear she smiles.
My chest does that stupid warm thing again.
Fuck, I'm excited to see her.
Not Analyst Madden. Not the woman watching my every move tonight to decide whether I keep my job.
I'm excited to see Darce. The woman who I had soaking wet and wrapped around me. Those soft lips against my mouth before everything between us went completely off the rails in the best fucking way possible.
Now she's sitting up there looking immaculate again.
I fucking love the contrast.
And after this game, Darcy Madden is going on her first proper date.
With me.
Fuck yeah, she is.
The puck drops, and for the next hour, I play the best hockey of my season.
First period, I win every board battle I touch. I absorb a hit in the corner that rattles my teeth so a lane opens for Declan, and this time — this time — when Declan threads the pass and Travis buries it, Coach smacks my helmet on the way past the bench. "Atta boy!"
I look up to the stands, winking at the woman I had in my arms a few nights ago.
Second period, I draw a penalty without taking one, kill two off ourselves, and set up Mason for a one-timer that clangs off the post. It's 1-1 and every shift I put in feels clean. Disciplined. I'm playing the exact game the audit wants and the wild thing is, it doesn't even feel like a leash.
It feels like proof.
Proof I belong here. Proof I want to be here.
Third period. 2-2. Six minutes left, and the Bear Cave is louder than I've ever heard it.
I'm waiting for the slot to open in the neutral zone. The puck comes my way and I read it perfectly. I strip their defenseman clean, and suddenly I've got ice. Lots of ice.
Options open up before my eyes.
Option one: I could chip it deep, change lines, live to fight another shift. It's the disciplined play. The Declan play. The play the statistics love.
Or…
There's option two.
I take a breath. Their last man back is flat-footed, and there is a gap between his skates that is exactly the size of a highlight reel. I slide the puck at the gap, but the guy who looked flat-footed isn't.
His stick flashes down, and he kills the puck dead.
By the time I've pivoted he's already whacked the puck the other way. Fuck. I'm the wrong side of everyone, chasing a play I created for the wrong team.
In the blink of an eye, the opposing team makes three passes, and before I can even skid to a stop, the puck is in the net behind Sawyer.
The Bear Cave goes so quiet so fast it's like someone pulled a plug on the ocean.
3-2. Four minutes left.
We push. God, we push.
Declan plays the last two minutes like a man possessed, Mason blocks a shot with a part of his body no one should block shots with.