Chapter 18
KNOX
Winners win, St. James.
I close my eyes and visualize myself poised for the puck drop. Sweat beads along my hairline, and the familiar scent of ice fills my nostrils. My eyes are locked on the ref’s hand, and the instant his finger twitches, I’m moving, prepared to intercept the puck before it lands.
Using my blade, I bat the puck down just before it makes contact with the ice. I slide it back to D-Vo. I don’t have to look to know he’s driving toward the goal. I skate hard, breath coming fast and rough as I move into position.
With his gaze locked on the goalie, D-Vo snaps the puck to me. It’s a sick no-look pass and I immediately drop to one knee and shoot, angling for the top of the net.
The goalie never even sees it coming.
The puck sails right past him. By the time he reacts, it’s too late. The puck is already buried in the net.
I rise and rush D-Vo, throwing my arms around him.
Someone touches my arm, and I snap back to reality.
Coach is standing over me, tablet in hand. “Knox, I need you to hang back for a minute.”
I glance around. The other guys are heading out for warmups, and I should be leading them.
My chest tightens. “What’s up, Coach?”
“I need your best tonight, son.” He holds up a hand, silencing me before I can even get started. “We need this win, and that means putting points on the board early. We can’t afford to trail the Rangers.”
He’s right. Some teams thrive on a comeback, but we’re not one of them.
We’re currently 3-3-2, and a win tonight would at least give us a winning record. It could be the morale boost we need. At the very least, it would give us something positive to build on. We’ve had some close games that should’ve been wins, but our defense fell apart in overtime.
“I’ll do my best, Coach.”
The Rangers are a tough team. They’re fast, physical, and they swept us last year, but we have the skill to hold our own.
“Good.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I know things have been a little rocky, but I have confidence in you, Knox. It’s easy to lead a winning team, but it’s what you do when things are shit that matters most.” He’s right, of course.
He knows it and I know it. We’ve both been through the wringer.
“There’s a reason I put that C on your chest. It’s because I believe you’re the leader this team needs. ”
Guilt gnaws at my conscience. Would Coach still believe in me if he knew what I’ve done? What I am doing?
Not likely.
“If we can smooth out the rough edges, this team will be a playoff contender, but we aren’t there yet. The guys on this team look up to you, and they need to know that you believe in them.”
If they don’t already know, then I’m doing a piss-poor job as team captain.
I don’t want to believe it. Don’t want to believe that I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems that I’m failing in my duties, but I force myself to sit with it. To think about all the times I could have given McGinnis advice, but didn’t.
He wasn’t going to listen anyway. He’s proven as much, refusing even the simplest of suggestions like picking up his damn socks.
But what if he had listened? What if I hadn’t given up on him?
Shit. I haven’t given up…have I?
“And Knox?”
I straighten, my eyes finding his. “Yes, Coach?”
“I’d like you to address the team before we take the ice tonight.”
My pulse quickens. I’ve addressed the team before, but this feels different. Heavier, somehow.
Probably because you’re lying to Coach’s face, disrespecting his wishes, and fucking his daughter, which he specifically forbade.
Yeah, that’ll do it. I scrub a hand over my face.
I can’t give Ava up—I’m in way too deep—but I can win games.
“You’ve got it, Coach.”
By the time I hit the ice for warmups, the guys are stretching and Chippy is busting a move at center ice, shaking his tail for all he’s worth. The fans are chanting his name, and I can’t fault them, but fuck, they don’t chant for us like that.
Because you’re not giving them a reason to scream your name.
Yeah, well, that’s about to change.
Twenty minutes later, I’m staring down my team in the locker room. My nerves are taut, and I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I need to make it count.
“When I take the ice tonight, I’m not playing for the fans, or the organization, or the standings.
I’m playing for the guys on this team.” I pause, scanning the room and making eye contact with each of my teammates.
“I believe in each one of you, and I believe in this team, even if I haven’t done a good job showing it.
That’s on me, but I want to be clear. We have the talent to win games.
We’ve done the work. So, tonight, let’s take the ice and win it for ourselves. ”
A deafening cheer reverberates off the walls, and shouts of “Fuck the Rangers!” and “Let’s do this!” fill the air.
The energy is palpable, and for the first time this season, I feel like the game is ours to lose.
By the time I square up for the puck drop, my hair is damp with sweat, and adrenaline courses through my veins. I draw a steadying breath as I get into position, bending my knees and lowering my center of gravity.
We need this win.
Coach’s words echo in my head, but I shove them aside. The only thing I need to worry about right now is the puck.
“You sure you wanna do this, St. James?” McAllister, the Rangers’ captain, asks. “I’ve seen better hands on a snake.”
I ignore him, watching the ref, just like in my pre-game visualization.
He releases the puck and I swipe it back to D-Vo. We’ve played together so long that our timing is flawless.
I skate hard, but the Rangers’ pressure is solid. D-Vo gets tripped up and has to rim the puck. I pivot as it glides behind the net, moving fast along the boards.
I pick it up and push off the boards before McAllister can make contact. He skids to a stop, but I’m already moving, advancing on the goal.
I feint left, turning my entire chest toward D-Vo like I’m looking to pass, but it’s a deke. I shoot, using the middle of my blade to send the puck flying. It hits the bar and drops into the goal.
Just like that, we take the lead.
Gliders 1- Rangers 0.
Forey and D-Vo rush me, and then I skate along the bench, celebrating with my team as McGinnis leads the second line onto the ice.
“Let’s go!” I call after them. “We need to keep up the momentum.”
I take my place on the bench, grab a water bottle, and take a drink.
As McGinnis prepares for the face-off, my gaze drifts to the stands.
To the section reserved for player’s families and special guests.
Ava is there, and she’s wearing a Gliders jersey.
There’s no number on it, which is probably to avoid showing favoritism, but I’m not too proud to admit I wish she was wearing my number.
She’d look damn fine wearing my jersey—and nothing else.
Just the thought of it has desire swirling in my gut.
The puck drops, and my attention snaps back to the ice.
The second line plays well, but the Rangers’ defense has clocked in. They look determined to prevent another quick goal, and our boys are breathing hard when they return to the bench.
The game goes on like this for a while, neither team able to score. We’re creating opportunities and shooting, but their goalie is a brick wall.
As the first period winds down, the Rangers get called for icing, and Coach initiates a line change. I return to the bench, frustrated, as the second line takes over.
McGinnis wins the face-off, and Fedorov picks up the puck.
Come on, guys. We need another one before the period ends.
I’d feel a hell of a lot better heading to the locker room with a two-point lead.
Nervous energy coils in my gut, and I lean forward, resting my hands on the wall.
Fedorov passes across to Kristiansen, who draws the defender out of position, and flicks a saucer to the middle. It’s a thing of beauty. The puck spins and lands flat on the ice, right where McGinnis is waiting.
Come on, Ginny. You’ve got this.
He rips a clapper and buries it in the net.
Holy shit. We’re up 2-0. The crowd goes wild, but when I look back to McGinnis, he’s face down on the ice.
I’m on my feet in an instant, looking for the call. It was a late fucking hit, but the ref lets it slide.
Cheers quickly turn to boos as Fedorov helps McGinnis climb to his feet.
I’m fuming as McGinnis returns to the bench and drops down next to me.
“Nice shot, Ginny.”
He pushes his mouth guard out and laughs. “The one in the goal or the one on me?
“Very funny.” I give him a brotherly shove. “Watch your back out there tonight.”
Clearly no one else is going to.
That hit was total bullshit. I’m surprised Kristiansen didn’t retaliate. I’ve never played with the guy before this season, but I’ve played against him and everyone knows he’s not the type to let a dirty play go unpunished.
That’s when he was playing for the Rangers.
Fuck. This had better not be a sign of things to come.
Our third line loses the face-off, and before I know it, it’s time for another shift on the ice.
We hold the Rangers for the entire first period, but the game is chippy. There are a lot of elbows and questionable hits, many of them targeting McGinnis.
In the second quarter, momentum shifts.
Graves gets a bullshit penalty and gets sent to the box. The Rangers score on the power play and Coach slams his clipboard against the wall.
“We’re better than this,” he roars. “You guys have got to win those corner battles cleanly if you want to create scoring opportunities.”
He’s frustrated, rightly so, and most likely imagining another game slipping through our fingers.
The third quarter is a slugfest, and when Johnson attempts to block a shot with his body, it bounces off his skate and between Bouchard’s legs.
It’s a total fluke, but that only makes it worse.
We’re tied 2-2 with a minute thirty left on the clock when Coach calls for subs.