Chapter Twelve The Championship Run #2
Benns floundered for a moment before he shook his head and moved on. “If we want to get there, as a team,” he emphasized, “then we gotta put two more wins in the books. We’re up against the Mother Puckers—”
This time the boos were louder, and Benns did nothing to stop them.
He was too polite to say anything negative about anyone, and certainly not about other teams or players in the league.
That he wasn’t trying to settle them down meant that he either a.) shared their dislike of the team, and though he wouldn’t verbalize it himself, would allow them to do it for him, or b.) wanted them riled up for a strong series.
Or both.
Probably both.
Not that Nick could argue with either. He didn’t like the Mother Puckers because they were good but douche-y about it. Case in point: that time the Dube Brothers pissed off Brady for shits and giggles. They’d laid off him since then, but still.
Nick might have booed louder than anyone else on the team.
“We’re up against the Mother Puckers. I’m not going to sugar coat it: they’re good.
They’re probably booking their flights because they see us, a team that’s never been in the finals, and think it’ll be an easy win.
No matter what the outcome of this series is, let’s at least prove them wrong about that.
They’re not going to walk all over us, it’s not going to be two and out, and we won’t get blown out in a game.
We can go toe-to-toe with those guys. They’re good, but we can be better. ”
That earned cheers of “Oh captain, my captain!” and “Fuck yeah!” and the more inarticulate hollers of “Whoo!!!”
They had their heads in the game; they could—they would do this.
“Next person to score in the playoffs,” Brady said loudly over the dying cheers, “I’m buying you a six-pack of your fav beer to share in the locker room.” He paused and squinted at Young Greg. “I’ll get you your favorite pop.”
“First of all, the use of ‘pop’ is offensive to me,” Nick joked. “Second of all, that beer is mine.”
“False. That beer’s gonna be mine!” Donno shouted.
“Bro!” Young Greg whined. “I should at least get an IOU on that beer if I score. I got less than a year to go!”
“Excuse me,” Guy said in his quiet voice, hand raised. His presence carried enough weight that everyone quieted down. Goalies had that power, Nick supposed, or maybe it was just Guy. “If I get a shutout, do I earn the beer as well?”
Brady pointed at him with a wide grin. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Guy grinned, and Nick felt there would be a real battle on their hands.
He was getting that beer, though.
*
“Young Greg shoots and he scores! The fans go wild! Eat it, Mother Puckers!” Young Greg shouted before GG tackled him against the boards in a hug.
Young Greg had been on a goal drought the past few weeks.
Honestly, Nick had never considered him scoring, not because he wasn’t capable, it’d just been so long that it seemed unlikely. “I want that beer!”
The other team shot them bewildered looks and pretended that they didn’t care about the goal or the celebration.
They did, which only fueled the Jagr Bomb’s rowdiness.
“I got the assist; I’m getting that beer!” GG said as he face-washed Young Greg.
Before any of them could get carried away, the ref emphatically waved his arms. “No goal!” he called.
All five of the Jagr Bombs on the ice rounded on the ref.
“What the fuc—heck you mean, no goal?” Young Greg demanded. “It’s over the line! It’s in the net!”
The opposing goalie took the opportunity to dig the puck out of the net and toss it down the ice.
“It was in!” Young Greg said again.
“Puck was in the net,” the ref agreed, “but it was after the whistle.”
“I didn’t hear a whistle—”
“I blew it, it’s just a shitty whistle. Can’t always hear it.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? He missed on the cover, that’s how I put it in. You were gonna give him an early whistle and now you’re saying it’s no goal because you meant to whistle, even if no one heard it?”
“I heard it!” said Little Douche. He grinned at them, though his eyes darted away when he saw Brady skate up to the ref.
“We play to the whistle,” Brady said. He put a hand on Young Greg’s shoulder and nudged him aside; technically only captains were allowed to talk to the refs or they risked a penalty. “We didn’t hear a whistle. You didn’t call ‘no goal’ until well after the play ended.”
“Intent to whistle is a thing, Jens,” the ref said. “Look it up.”
“Yeah, in the NHL. This isn’t the NHL. It’s beer league,” Brady said.
Nick tried to ignore how sexy it was when he got all authoritative.
“You say no goal, it’s no goal, but you gotta understand my boys getting upset about this.
You got a shitty whistle, you replace it.
That’s what our league fees are for, right? ”
The ref’s face grew red. “You’re right, I say it’s no goal, it’s no goal, so guess what? No goal. Line up; we’re dropping the puck in ten seconds.”
Brady didn’t push more.
He did a whole lot of literal pushing when it came to Young Greg, who was livid. “Line the fuck up,” Brady hissed at him. “You’re pissed? Fine. Use it to score another one. Don’t get yourself in trouble and put us on the PK.”
Young Greg’s reply was inarticulate, but he listened to Brady and behaved himself.
“Hey,” Brady whispered to Nick, crowding his space as he leaned in as close as Nick’s cage would allow. “Win it straight back, yeah?”
He was gone before Nick could question him, and the refs aggressively waved them into position.
There were a lot of things Nick could say about Brady Derek Jensen, some of which were not particularly positive.
One thing was for sure, though: the guy knew hockey.
From the get-go, he’d gauged Nick’s abilities, and he knew the other teams in the league just as well.
He could orchestrate plays that played perfectly to the Jagr Bombs’s strengths and took advantage of every hole in other team’s defense.
If Brady told him to win it back, well, he’d do his best.
The ref lined them up at the dot. Nick dutifully squared up, shoved the opposing center out of the way as soon as the puck dropped, and then managed to kick the puck directly behind him.
It was usually an empty spot, that middle ground between the defensemen, but Brady was there waiting.
Without a millisecond of hesitation, he fired the puck right on goal.
The goalie, clearly not expecting a shot, never mind a scorcher like that, didn’t even flinch before it hit the back of the net.
Nick heard a surprised “oh shit” before the Jagr Bombs drowned out everything.
Well, nearly everything.
“You trying to blow the whistle on that one?” Brady shot to the refs. It was petty, vindictive, and after that goal, really fucking hot.
Young Greg nearly tackled Brady. “Does this mean we owe you a beer, bro?”
“Not that you’re gonna be the one buying it,” GG said as he patted Brady on the helmet. “Nice shot, by the way. Feel free to launch those any time, but maybe lemme know to duck.”
It was Nick’s turn next in the congratulatory circle. “Do I get the beer for the assist? Also, I don’t know if heckling the ref counts as a celly.”
Brady wore a huge grin. “Fuck off, all of you.”
*
“I know it was a hard loss last game,” Benns said. It was only a day later, the game too fresh and their indignant anger too hot and righteous. None of them were happy with the reminder; leave it to Benns to power through anyway.
They were huddled around Guy’s net, as far as possible from the other team. Benns had refused to do a team speech in the locker room, and it wasn’t until Nick had realized that the Mother Puckers were literally a thin wall away that he understood why.
“I don’t like to say it, but I think the refs really screwed us over with that no goal.
We did our best to come back, with great work from Jensie and Mags scoring and an all-around solid effort, and they got a lucky bounce at the end.
Remember that, boys. It was a lucky bounce, and that was it.
They didn’t outplay us. They didn’t have a better performance from their goalie.
The refs helped ’em out, and they had some good luck. ”
“We’ve got different refs today,” Brady pointed out.
“So don’t go bringing last game’s baggage into this one.
These two guys are here with no clue what the fuck happened last game except what the score sheet says, so don’t give them shit.
Being an asshole doesn’t help, and pissing off refs especially doesn’t help. ”
“Good point, Jens,” Benns said. “We play a clean game, and I think that works to our advantage. If the Mother Puckers want to get scrappy and we don’t respond, the refs see that.
It also makes the Mother Puckers more careless because they’re too busy trying to start something instead of playing.
Keep your head in the game, do everything we’ve already been doing, and don’t forget…
have fun. At the end of the day, this is still a game, and if you didn’t have fun then there’s a problem. ”
“I have fun winning,” grumbled Mags.
“Me too,” Benns said without missing a beat, “but it’d be a lie to say I only enjoy the games we win.
We’ve had losses where I had fun on the ice, on the bench, and in the locker room.
Ultimately, I feel those laughs stick with me more than the final score.
It keeps me coming back. It keeps my love for the sport going.
So let’s have fun tonight… and let’s get that win while we’re at it. ”
They weren’t much of a “team cheer” kind of team, but Benns put out his hand and, slowly, others joined him. Gloves and bare hands piled onto each other as bodies pushed together to reach the center.
“Clear eyes, full hearts?” Lexi joked.
Benns ignored him. “Let’s go Jagr Bombs on three. One, two, three—”
“LET’S GO JAGR BOMBS!”