Chapter Twelve The Championship Run #5
“You don’t want a shootout, then score,” Benns said. “Any one of you can do it, so do it. If you’re wondering if this is your time to step up, it is.”
“Whoever scores gets to drink out of the cup first, yes?” Guy said, eyes shining mischievously. He knew they were all motivated by beer as much as glory.
“That cup has been sitting in the rink office since last playoffs, gathering dust,” Benns pointed out.
“How dare you imply that would stop any of us,” Gail said.
“Y’all gonna talk or you gonna play?” the ref shouted with a bemused look from center ice. The other team was already lined up at the faceoff circle, eyeing them warily. They looked nervous, unsettled by the Jagr Bombs’ ease.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Gail muttered. She didn’t wait for the nod; she skated to her usual spot as right D.
“Guess that means I’m up,” Brady said as he skated after her.
Nick wanted, needed, to be out there, but he wasn’t going to push. He hung back, let the other forwards discuss a game plan, and then ultimately, it was Young Greg who insisted they go out once they saw Little Dube’s line waiting at center ice.
“Good luck!”
“Get that W!”
“Don’t fuck this up for us.”
“Hey, stay positive! But don’t fuck up!”
Nothing came out of the end of that first shift, nor the line after them.
There were chances both ways, a post here, a block there, but none of them scored.
Nick’s skin buzzed when he next lined up on the ice.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything—he’d been wired all night—and he tried to ignore it.
It was a distraction, and he wanted serenity right now.
A deep breath in, out. In, out. In, hold it, out.
That inner peace came to him once the puck dropped. His body moved quickly, efficiently, but his mind was calm. He saw the plays before they developed, moved to intercept and break up their passes, made good passes of his own. He was his best hockey-playing self, which was all he could ask for.
No chances manifested, and he started to look for opportunities for a line change. The next draw or a dump-in would do, and when the puck came his way with no obvious chance at a breakaway, he collected it to toss it down the ice.
And then he found pressure on his back, something hard and solid knocking off his equilibrium and forcing him down to the ice. A warm body followed, and he came to the inescapable conclusion that he’d not only been cross-checked but outright tackled.
He had the presence of mind to look for a ref. There should be no reasonable way that they wouldn’t see the puck carrier get bear-tackled from behind, but he had to be sure.
Sure enough, both refs had a hand up for a penalty.
The puck was loose in front of him. In the corner of his eye, he saw the defensemen from the Mother Puckers rushing forward to grab it and get the whistle.
Nick wrestled his stick free and swung wildly at it from the ground, swatting it blindly toward his own bench.
Benns jumped over, the extra man on the delayed penalty.
He hit the ice and caught the puck mid-stride.
He looked shaky, like he didn’t have his legs under him, but he had a good head start.
The Mother Puckers tried to regroup. Too late they realized they’d pushed in, all their focus on getting the whistle and not on playing actual defense.
Benns was all clear, gaining speed and confidence on his breakaway. His head was down, concentrating on the puck and not aiming. Nick watched in horror as the goalie saw this and pushed out of his net to poke-check him.
The goalie slid out of net stick-first, aiming so that he’d take out Benns’s legs if he missed the puck.
Benns took a shot over the diving goalie, falling on top of him when they made contact.
The puck went right by the goalie’s lowered, useless stick toward the empty net. It was veering too far left, it’d miss entirely, but it was a solid effort—
It hit the post, ricocheted to the right, and went into the back of the net.
There was a full second, maybe two, of stunned silence before the rink filled with loud screams and cheers. The sound grew and grew, as loud and as satisfying as when the fans at Capital One Arena celebrated a win.
“Holy shit,” Nick muttered, still on the ice.
“Fuck,” he heard the guy on top of him mutter before Nick pushed him off. The guy was gone. Nick’s stick was gone. His gloves were gone. Nick was gone as he sprinted to Benns.
He wasn’t the first there, but he did get to help Benns back to his feet and hug him while screaming utter nonsense in his ears.
As more and more of the team joined the frenzied celebration, they fell all over again.
There were laughs, cheers, obscenities, and the increasingly impatient urging of the refs that they get in the handshake line because c’mon, the rest of them had to get home.
“Let’s get this over with,” the Mother Puckers’ captain said, nudging them with his stick. He looked utterly defeated, but he had the quiet forbearance of any good captain.
They lined up behind Guy, accepting the quiet congratulations from the other team and offering consolation in the form of “good game” with varying degrees of sincerity.
It was weird; it felt like his hockey story should be done.
He’d bought the gear and learned how to skate.
He’d joined a team, played in a league, played in a friggin’ tournament.
He’d gotten a hat trick, helped win a championship, and earned himself tons of bruises and a concussion.
In less than a year, he’d lived out all of the highest hopes he’d had for adult hockey.
He’d done so, so much… but he couldn’t say the story was over.
There was one last thing missing to make the experience complete.
There’s still the celebrating, he pointed out. Maybe that’ll make it feel more final, like the championship’s real.
True enough; as soon as the last person completed their sportsmanly duty, the Jagr Bombs loudly charged into the locker room.
It was chaos.
Gear came off piece by piece, mixed together hopelessly all the way from the rink to the locker room, and none of it made it into a gear bag before cans and bottles of beer started appearing.
No one had said a word of it pre-game—no one had wanted to jinx things with an assurance of celebration after a win—but everyone except Young Greg had snuck in beer (or, notably, a bottle of tequila from Mags).
They shook up the cans to make them burst when they opened and sprayed the room, skate blades were used to pop off the caps of bottles, and tequila was taken by generous shots poured right into mouths.
It was decadence, ridiculous to such a degree that there was no way Nick could tell this story to anyone and have them believe it actually happened.
So of course Nick had to one-up everyone. Keg stands were out—there was no keg—but there was something any good Caps fan had to do in reckless celebration.
“Give me a fucking beer!” Nick said, then pulled his jersey over his face. Immediately the room grew louder as his teammates cheered and screamed approval; they recognized what he was doing.
And yes, Nick chugged a whole beer through his jersey. He was sure Oshie would be proud—nay, honored—at the homage.
The team was still mid-cheer when a loud, forceful knock broke through the ruckus. They quieted down, and Benns hobbled over to the door, opening it enough to greet whoever was on the other side of the door but not enough to let them see inside through his bulking frame.
“We know that you are respectfully following the rink’s no-alcohol policy,” came one of the ref’s voices. It was all mock severity, because he knew damn well what they were doing.
“Yes, sir,” Benns said. His hand clamped around the beer can hidden behind his back, making the aluminum ring out in the confined space.
“And you’ll clean up whatever mess is in there before you leave, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you remember the rink closes in about twenty, so you and your team’ll be out of here by then, no trouble, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Great. Here’s the trophy cup. Make sure you don’t crack it like the last team, and bring it back to your next game.”
“Thank you,” Benns said politely, his free hand accepting the comically oversized coffee cup. He was about to knee the door closed but then added in a stage whisper, “You and Aida are off-duty now, technically, right?”
“Yeah—”
“Youse wanna come in for a drink?”
A pause.
“Yeah, actually. Lemme grab her.”
The next time there was a knock at the door, the cheers only grew louder. Their zebra stripes gone; they were welcomed in with open arms and given their own chance to drink lukewarm, slightly skunked beer out of the cup.
*
Nick swayed back and forth, nodding along to whatever the current topic of conversation was.
He’d stopped paying attention to anything that wasn’t a mindless chant of “Ja-gr Bombs! Ja-gr Bombs” or the good ol’ “USA! USA!” or the one that Brady avidly tried to shut down whenever it sprang up: “C-A-P-S CAPS CAPS CAPS!” There also might have been a drunken, off-key rendition of “We Are the Champions” at some point.
Other than that, Nick’s brain had fizzled out.
He knew that they’d scrambled to get out of the locker rooms before the lights in the rink were shut off and they were forcibly removed.
He remembered the indulgent greetings they’d received in the lobby from their friends and family members who had stuck it out, nearly forgotten in the wake of their drinking.
There’d been some scrambling to figure out an after-party location, and then more scrambling and musical chairs to figure out who among the faithful fans could chauffeur the drunken masses.
They were definitely at a bar now. That was obvious. He had a warm beer bottle in hand, and he eagerly tossed it back only to find it was empty save for a few drops at the bottom, so little he couldn’t even taste them.
Damn.