Chapter 48
Forty-Eight
A Heart Attack in Four Acts
Forest
May
Playoff hockey is basically a heart attack in four acts, and I’m willingly subjecting myself to it from row sixteen at the Denver arena, next to my thirteen-year-old son, who’s busy bargaining with God.
I think he just said he’d quit TikTok for a week if the Cougars could just kill this damn penalty.
I glance sideways. “A week? That’s it?”
Charlie shoots me a glare. “I said a week minimum.”
I snort, but I’m feeling just as irrational as he is.
The Cougars are one goal down as the clock ticks down on the second period.
If we don’t win tonight, L.A. wins the conference, which will sting.
They shouldn’t even be here—they snuck into the playoffs like a raccoon into a backyard wedding and have caused nothing but chaos ever since.
But here we are. Game six. Conference Finals. Backs against the wall.
Walcott’s in net, standing tall so far. And by “tall” I mean slightly above average. He’s letting rebounds spill like change out of a torn pocket, but the defense has bailed him out every time.
Beck is suited up on the bench, rostered as tonight’s backup. Between plays, my gaze keeps traveling over there. With his helmet off, I can see every line of concentration on his handsome face. He keeps flexing his blocker hand like he’s trying to keep it warm in case something goes sideways.
He’d called me at five p.m., asking, “Can you find backup at work tonight? I’m on the bench, which means I’ve got two tickets for you.”
My answer, of course, was hell yes. Although I made Charlie show me his finished math homework before we walked out the door.
This is the Cougars’ seventeenth playoff game, and Beck’s fifth one on the bench. They didn’t turn to him at all during the first round. But Volkov’s old injury may be flaring, because Beck’s been on the bench backing up Walcott several times in quick succession.
L.A. has the power play, and Charlie and I are eating our feelings. He’s shoving popcorn into his mouth, and I have pretzel crumbs on my brand-new Cougars jersey that says JAMES on the back.
“They should put Beck in,” Charlie grumbles as we fail on the forecheck. “This would be his grudge match against L.A.”
“Yeah,” I agree. Especially if the hockey gods want me to throw up in public.
“He’d get ’em this time,” Charlie says confidently. “On his home turf.”
“That’s right.” This will be Beck’s home turf someday. I feel it in my bones.
We survive the power play, and I start to relax a little. But then there’s a scramble behind the net. Our D-man gets tangled up and goes down, and an L.A. winger takes the opening to crash the crease like a goddamn wrecking ball.
Walcott gets bowled over.
Hard.
Time slows down. The whole Cougars bench stands up for a better look at their teammate. The crowd downshifts from a roar to that eerie playoff silence when something goes sideways.
Walcott’s helmet is off, which is scary.
Players swarm the crease, blocking my view of the situation. But I note that Walcott’s feet aren’t moving.
Charlie whispers, “Oh fuck.”
I don’t even reprimand him.
Trainers hit the ice. The arena holds its collective breath.
Like everyone else, I’m praying for Walcott to get right up and shake it off. But I have the feeling Beck—our Beck—is about to get the nod.