Chapter Twelve The Championship Run #4
…right to where Nick sprinted. He could sense the other team’s surprise, their belated reaction. The world slowed down to him getting the puck squarely on the blade of his stick, aiming his shot at the scrambling goalie, and praying he at least got them a whistle to try again.
The puck was going wide, about to ring around the boards and out of the zone, but then the goalie’s blocker came up.
The deflection was both amazing and terrible, changing the trajectory from benignly away from the net to right into the back of it.
The goalie’s head whipped around and then fell when he saw where it’d landed.
There was a final, perfect moment of adrenaline-fueled speed before the world returned to normal, and Nick had to fend off tackles from his linemates.
“Crazy son of a bitch!”
“Look at that ugly goal!”
“You lucky bastard!”
“Highlight reel right there, boys!”
“HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES!” came a familiar voice from the stands, somehow drowning out the voices surrounding him.
“SIGN MY CHEST, NICK PORTER!” followed a slightly deeper but eerily similar voice. “YOU TOO, GAIL!”
“Oh, fuck me,” Nick mumbled and pulled away from the celebratory group hug.
It was a testament to where his head was that he hadn’t noticed Jenna or Terry (or, now that he actually looked, any of the other people, some of them complete strangers, others probably family members of his teammates, people he’d seen in passing at the Caps game or Winter Classic party).
They were right across from them, too, which made him profoundly embarrassed. He’d never had tunnel vision this bad.
But hey, goal. So… maybe a good thing?
He didn’t have time to do more than wave at them before he was bodily dragged to center ice for the next faceoff. The Mother Puckers were getting pissy, and the refs, not wanting to deal with their bitching, were trying to keep the game moving.
At the end of the first, with a one-nothing lead to protect, Nick snuck away from the bench to talk to his cousins… and make himself feel better for not noting them earlier.
“Hey—”
“I can’t believe I had to find out about your championship game from Terry’s girlfriend.
” Jenna had to stand on her tippy toes to yell over the glass and be heard, but damn if she didn’t make it work.
“That’s literally the insanest sentence I’ve ever said in my whole life, so I expect you to win to make it worthwhile. ”
“When’d you get here?”
“Terry drove in with Gail. I got here about five minutes before your goal. Yes, I noticed you didn’t notice us.”
“Well, thanks for coming. Pretty sweet goal, right?”
“Uh huh. Good luck. Don’t fuck it up, you’re doing really well so far.”
“…thanks?”
Jenna gave him a thumbs up and then hopped down from the glass.
No pressure. Just his team to let down, the tournament to miss out on, and now his family to disappoint.
And yet it was surprisingly easy to forget Jenna and Terry were there. As soon as the period started, the pressure slid right off him. The full stands didn’t matter. The ticking clock didn’t matter. Even the score didn’t matter. It was this shift, and then the next, and then the one after that.
His zen faded a little when the Mother Puckers tied it late in the third.
It was a shit play, too. Little Douche pushed past Lexi, his stick catching Lexi’s skate and making the defenseman trip hard into the boards.
The Jagr Bombs were on their feet screaming for the refs to make a call, and then seconds later the Mother Puckers were on their feet screaming in delight as Little Douche scored.
“Those fucking shitheads—” Brady said, about to climb over the boards. Nick wasn’t sure what Brady intended to do—kick ass or talk to the refs—but Benns held him back and waved the refs over.
“You gotta explain that no call to me,” he said calmly, captainly, as Brady seethed next to him.
“I didn’t see a call,” the ref said apologetically, though his voice was hard and brooked no argument. “I see your guy flat on the ice, I can’t just call a random penalty if I don’t see what puts him there. Even if I see it, doesn’t mean there’s a penalty.”
“You fucking kidding me—”
Benns yanked Brady’s jersey. Brady was entitled to speak as alternate captain, but cooler heads tended to fare better with the refs. Something that Brady himself usually preached.
Maybe if it were another player involved, he’d be calmly pleading his case alongside Benns; Nick got the feeling that ship had sailed back with the BJ Incident.
“Dube has a history,” Benns pointed out.
“I get that,” the ref said, “but I can’t make a call I don’t see.
I apologize that you feel there should’ve been something on that, but I can’t take a chance.
Goal’s a goal. This ain’t the NHL. There’s no review.
If me or the other ref don’t see it or we think it’s good play, nothing to do about it. ”
“It’s a tying goal in a championship game.” Nick could hear the slight desperation in Benns’s voice, but also resignation. “He doesn’t trip our guy, he doesn’t score that goal.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I can’t retroactively call a penalty, now can I? Sucks, but hey, that’s hockey sometimes.” And then the ref skated off before they could say anything else.
Nick got it, he totally did, and as a ref he’d have made the same call. Didn’t take the sting out of it and clearly didn’t make anyone else on the bench feel better as they glared murder at the ice. They were a powder keg right now, and if they didn’t win, Nick wasn’t sure what would happen.
After one trip to the doctor already this season, he’d keep himself out of it.
Unless Brady was involved. Just as a courtesy for the whole concussion debacle.
…or maybe Gail, so that Terry wouldn’t have to bail her out of jail.
So basically, he was getting very heavily involved no matter what.
“You know what,” Nick said. “Maybe you should send me and the Gregs out. Calm things down. Score some goals. End this garbage before we get dragged through OT.”
“We can totes get one back,” Young Greg agreed.
“You gotta get Lexi off the ice,” Brady added. “He’s pissed, and he’s hurt. Not a good combo.”
Benns sighed and let out a rare curse. “Fuck, this is a mess. Yeah, good idea. Full change. We’ve got three minutes before overtime; let’s make them count. I think we’d all appreciate this one ending quick, and in our favor.”
*
Despite playing their hearts out, they couldn’t get it done.
Nick sprinted hard the first thirty seconds he was on the ice only to have a sketchy icing call tire him out before he could do anything productive.
He went for the change, thankful that beer-league rules didn’t care about icing as much as the big leagues.
“How’s your leg?” he asked Lexi. He couldn’t tear his eyes off the game, but he could at least play nice.
“Probably bruised. Landed on my stick right between the pads. Short shift out there. Your legs okay?”
“I’m shit at sprinting, so no, they’re not great.”
“Too bad, man. Thought you had that icing waved off.”
“Icing’s a joke in this league.”
“Well, save it for OT.”
There was a late puck cover with a buck-ten left, spurring a line change on both sides. Regulation fizzled out with nobody able to do anything meaningful. Even when Mags had a clear shot at the net, his stick broke, and he flubbed the shot well short.
The buzzer sounded, a wet noodle of an ending if there ever was one.
“This fucking ssssucks,” Young Greg sang as he skated in slow circles in front of the bench. “S-U-C-K-S sucks sucks sucks!”
“With that attitude, yes, it does,” Benns said.
It was the closest to real anger Nick had seen from their stalwart captain, and like everyone else, he fell silent.
“I know this is frustrating. We’ve outplayed them most of the game, and if it weren’t for a cheap play and a bad no-call, we’d be in the handshake line right now about to celebrate in the locker room.
I’d even brought some beer for that very occasion, as I’m relatively sure some of you did. ”
“Jinx,” Gail said weakly and sighed, her whole body slumped where she rested against her stick.
“No, no jinx. Just delayed,” Benns said.
“That beer’s still waiting for us. That handshake line will feel as good with a win now as it would’ve then.
I refuse to let these guys, who have been mediocre all post-season and dicks tonight, take our spot in Toronto.
We’ve put in the time, and we’ve got the grit, so let’s do this.
Hands in, guys and Gail. Jagr Bombs on three, and then we get this W. One. Two. Three.”
“JAGR BOMBS!”
“Good! Now, let’s win that ridiculously oversized coffee cup and send these guys back home empty-handed!”
Benns, no matter what anyone might say about him, was a damn good captain. It was like he’d flicked a switch, their earlier anger channeled into fierce determination. This championship was theirs to win or lose, and they were going to fucking win it.
“Who’s up first?” Gail asked. She’d positioned herself a few feet from the bench, close enough that she could come back if need be but clearly wanting to start out.
“I need another minute,” Lexi said. He stretched his leg and winced. “Only a five-minute period, right? I’ll be good for one or two hard shifts. I just need a bit more time.”
“Five-minute period,” Benns confirmed. “Then a shootout if necessary.”
“What the hell kind of championship is decided by a shootout?” GG mumbled under his breath.
“The Olympics,” Brady said.
“World Championship,” Nick added.
“Juniors—” Lexi started.
“Not the NHL, though,” GG groused. “NHL’s got standards.”
“They also play seven games per round after an eighty-two game season, are professional athletes, and have a giant metal trophy instead of a coffee cup. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re a few notches down from there, bud,” Gail said.
“True, but—”