Chapter 19
PATRICK
MY EDGES ARE fine. They were fine this morning, and they were fine five minutes ago when I last checked, but I drag my thumb along the blade anyway, because the alternative is looking at the television above the door, and I already know it by heart.
Chicago: in, barring an asteroid. Us: one point below the line.
The graphic refreshes and gains the words MUST-WIN, capitalized and pulsing. Thank you, really. Every man in this locker room has that fact carved into the inside of his skull, but by all means, flash it in red, in case one of us planned on treating tonight as practice.
Three stalls down, Theo is performing.
He's been doing it since we walked in, louder than his usual loud. The trade report hasn't come up once, which is how I know it's the only thing in his stall with him.
I watch him for a few seconds, until he meets my gaze.
The grin stays up for the cheap seats, but his eyes do a quick private thing underneath it. You good?
I give him an up nod. Half an inch of an answer. Are you?
His chin comes up a fraction.
Fine, then. We're both lying.
Coach Berg steps into the middle of the floor and waits for quiet. "They're comfortable," he says. "We're not. Make them uncomfortable."
Theo raises one hand. "I can make anyone uncomfortable. It's a special skill of mine."
Berg points at the tunnel. "On the ice, Moreau."
Theo rolls his eyes. "Limiting, coach."
Stalls empty around the laugh. Theo passes close and knocks his shoulder into mine, one clean thump, and then he's gone toward the tunnel while my phone lights up in my stall.
Tata: Big game. I am watching. Call me when you get home.
Will do, my thumbs produce. I look at it, shake my head and send him a thumbs-up emoji instead.
Theo’s head pokes out from the doorway. "Are you planning to join us?"
I put my phone away and grab my mask. "Skate."
"Romance is so dead."
The tunnel hands us over to the noise.
I run my routes: scrape the blue paint, tap both posts, then check the sightline.
At the far end, Wall's hair announces him to the crowd.
What captures me, is the A on his mask, painted on so recently I can almost smell the lacquer. Pride comes up fast and warm, before I squash it, because I'm standing in my own crease one point below the wild-card line, proud of the opposition.
Focus, Grze?kowiak.
We pass near center on the last lap a few minutes later, both of us holding speed. "The A is crooked," I say.
He doesn’t break stride. "It isn't."
"Then the mask is."
“Nice try, G.”
The puck drops, and Chicago comes out exactly as comfortable as advertised. Becker to Kane, Kane to Ace, who opens his shoulders a breath early. That breath is my entire livelihood. I'm across before the puck is. It hits the middle of my chest and drops dead between my pads.
Whistle.
Three minutes in, first hold.
Theo circles my crease once, then he’s gone.
The Wolves own the rest of the period. The shot counter climbs, bodies migrate through my sightline, Becker hunts low while Kane goes high, and my world shrinks to hips and legs, which is my favorite size of world.
Late in the period, Becker fires through a forest of feet and a stick tips it.
The puck changes toward me, producing a scramble I end by sealing the ice under three bodies and one whistle.
Once the pile peels off, I look down the ice at Wall, who’s had five shots of work all night so far.
Horn. Zero–zero. Shots fourteen to five.
In the dressing room, Berg taps the same spot twice on the whiteboard. "You're waiting for somebody else to take the puck. Stop waiting!"
I take the assistant coach’s tablet to my stall and pull Chicago's entries. On the monitor above, the visitors' tunnel appears, and inside it Wall, mask up, bottle at his mouth. Theo drops onto the bench beside me, close, and whispers.
"You’re staring."
I check the nearest stalls first. Everybody's busy with their own gear. "I'm watching their line change."
He leans in closer. "With your heart?"
I turn my head toward him slowly. The warning transmits. "Relax," he whispers. "Everyone thinks you're plotting murder. Very on-brand."
"We're being outshot fourteen to five," I point out.
"And nobody scored. That's why you get paid the big bucks."
I stand and put on my mask. "Go generate a shot."
He backs toward the door, grinning.
The second period looks better, until it doesn't. Six minutes in, Becker holds the point until Kane opens across from him.
I get Kane's release clean through the gap beside Ace's hip. What I don’t get is Groover's stick, waiting.
It happens in a blink. The tip changes everything, the post rings behind me, and the light comes on.
One–zero. Fuck.
I watch the replay once. Tip, clean, well-executed. Unstoppable, officially. Making myself believe that takes one squirt of water on the outside and much longer everywhere else.
At the next freeze, Theo coasts in and bends over, pretending his skate needs his attention. "He shot that through Ace, Lindqvist, and at least one unidentified ass cheek."
"It went in."
He looks up at the dark goal light. "Oh, did it? You don’t say."
I pass my bottle back over the net. "Score one."
"Ohh, bossy. Fine. I'll repair your evening."
Chicago nearly makes repairs impossible. A two-on-one, Kane waiting out our defenseman, the pass across, Ace's shot off my shoulder. His stick ends up trapped under my arm.
Then, Theo makes good on his promise.
Kane tries to rim the puck out and Theo puts his body on boards, takes Kane's shoulder as the price, and moves it up before the hit folds him to his knees.
Becker collects it and starts the clear.
From his knees, Theo bats the pass out of the air, and he's upright and shoveling it to Lindqvist before Becker has a chance to process.
Lindqvist shoots through Becker's legs. Wall gets the pad, the rebound squirts weak-side, and our forward buries it while Kane's dive arrives a foot too late.
Light. Tied.
The scoresheet will call that a secondary assist, and the radio will call it energy. I watched him take a hit to keep a puck alive and win a corner from his knees, and if you can rent that anywhere at half price, I’m all ears, motherfuckers.
He comes out from under two Wolves, pointing down the ice at me with both hands. Repair in progress.
Wall circles behind his net, pushes his mask up, and drinks. Every movement is exact. His anger always makes him more precise, as though the goal can be reversed if he performs the reset perfectly enough.
Early in the third, he shows me what close is worth to him.
Theo escapes into the slot and gets his shot away clean, a goal in any building in this league, and Wall takes it off his pad, loses the rebound, then drags it off the goal line with the heel of his stick, blind.
Eighteen thousand people start the roar and have to eat it.
Theo jerks his head in a way that suggests a creative string of curses.
I lift my chin down the ice.
Excellent save.
I still want to beat you.
Wall returns it and settles back into his stance.
The Wolves lean on us after that. My legs get heavy, but the reads stay clean. A Becker shot dies in my glove, Groover finds my skate at the post, and then, with about seven minutes left, we finally put the puck behind Wall, and Theo goes back to work.
Kane gets there first. Theo absorbs the hit that comes with him.
Trapped in the corner by both defensemen now, down on one knee again, he slips a blind backhand between his own skates to Lindqvist, arriving from the point.
The one-timer beats the blocker, dies behind Wall's right pad, and crawls for the line with Kane diving in after it.
It crosses.
Two–one, and the stands go bananas. Theo surfaces from under Becker without his stick and looks for me before he looks for anyone else. Both hands, pointed down the ice. Repaired.
I hit my post once, hard.
Wall stays down at the far end, staring at the strip of ice that beat him. Then he rises and puts his stick into his post, and I feel the clang in my teeth. Close twice tonight.
Chicago vengeance comes in waves. Two more saves put me at thirty-seven, and then Wall skates for the bench and an attacker comes in with seventy seconds left.
During the timeout, our goalie coach crouches at my crease and points at his tablet. "They're building the seam for Ace."
"I know."
They've shown it twice already: Becker walks the line, Kane waits across, Ace drifts and impersonates a tank.
Chicago wins the draw. Traffic seals me into my crease. I track the puck through a gap beside Lindqvist's arm as it goes to Kane, then across the seam, and Ace is alone with open net above my pad, because I'm still low from the first look.
He releases immediately. Good shooter. Right choice.
I drive off my edge and reach across the opening, and the puck meets the heel of my glove on my way down to the ice.
Ace's arms start to rise. The building inhales. I open the glove for the official.
Black rubber, sitting there.
Mine.
Whistle. Save thirty-eight, no rebound, and the arena finds a register I've only heard a few times in my career.
Ace stares down at me. "You've got to be kidding me."
The replay runs overhead from three angles, louder each time. At the Chicago bench, Wall stands, watching the screen, then gives me one small lift of his chin.
Mine answers on its own.
The final faceoff produces one blocked shot, before the horn disappears under the crowd. We're above the line, and every Viper lands on me. Gloves on my mask, Lindqvist's hand on my helmet, bodies filling the crease. Joy reaches my face faster than I can dress it in something composed.
Theo hits my side at full speed and knocks my mask crooked. "Did I repair your evening, or what?" he yells straight into my ear.
I catch the back of his jersey. "Adequately."
He jerks back to glare at me. "You’re physically unable to be happy, aren’t you?"