42. Jamie
Jamie
The game against Minnesota is brutal.
That is until one of the opposing D-men slams Colt into the boards—hard as hell—with one minute on the clock, and Warren decides to go ape-shit.
The last minute on the ice, he acts as Colt’s personal bodyguard, forgetting about the actual written plays and crashing into anyone who comes within three feet of his best friend.
With the extra protection, Colt’s able to swing around the net and lob the puck into the upper right corner, just over the goalie’s shoulder as the clock counts down to zero.
The surge of elation that rushes through my blood when the buzzer sounds is euphoric. Every single guy on the team screams and rips off their helmets, crushing Colt and Beau in a dog-pile hug—again.
The fans and Saint A’s students in the stands jump up and down, embracing their friends and throwing their hats and posters like a damn graduation ceremony. A replay of Colt’s goal plays on the Jumbotron as we line up and shake hands with the other team.
The security here is more strict than at our home rink, so no one storms the ice to congratulate us, despite me seeing Stella and the girls banging on the plexiglass in excitement.
Colt blows her a kiss before we head into the tunnel, spirits soaring high above cloud nine.
“That’s what I’m talking about, boys!” Coach hollers, filing into the locker room at the end of the line. The entire team cheers along as he and the rest of the coaching staff applaud.
“That was a tough team; those northern boys can play. But you all fought your hearts out, and I’ve never been more proud.
” He turns, addressing Colt. “Crosby…” he lets the word hang in the air, the entire team seems to be holding their breath.
“I’m fucking proud of you, son. That right there—what you just did—is why I love this job.
You battled like hell to get back here today, and you just showed the entire damn world what you’re capable of.
Your parents are up there right now, looking down and cheering your name. ”
Colt’s eyes shine with gratitude as Coach claps him in a hug, and the entire locker room breaks out in applause again.
Coach Winchester goes on to address every guy who played tonight, as he always does.
He tells Beau he’s proud of how he protected his teammate, despite not following orders.
He tells Gally how he played the game of his life in the net—his first shutout.
Down the line he continues, praising each man here on the game of a lifetime.
“Captain,” he starts, finally getting to me.
I wait for the usual comments—good game or no notes.
Instead, he pauses and catches my eye with an earnest look, one I have to fight the urge to turn away from.
“Way to lead. You won every face-off you had tonight, did you know that? Not just on the line; every time you battled for the puck in play, you succeeded, and you passed to one of your guys.”
Coach pauses again, finding his words. “I should be mad that my leading scorer didn’t even attempt to take a shot tonight,” he says, and the entire team mumbles, laughing awkwardly in realization.
“But I’m not. I’m not mad at all. You played humbly.
You played selflessly. You believed in your teammates.
I’m proud of you, Cap, for being the leader I knew you were. ”
Swallowing, I fight the lump in my throat as I process his words—the emotion I see shining in his face is an expression I haven’t seen in nearly fifteen years: fatherly pride.
“That being said, you better shoot the damn puck on Saturday,” he ends in a much lighter tone, the boys laughing and throwing jabs my way as I nod with a grin.
“Be safe tonight, boys. Celebrate responsibly; I’m not bailing anyone out of jail.
Be here at five-thirty tomorrow night for the Maryland-Arizona game.
Enjoy your day off and rest up. We’re winning this thing Saturday. ”
The roar that erupts from my teammates is deafening. Coach extends his arm forward in the middle of the room, and everyone else follows suit. Drew screams out at countdown from three and we all end the team meeting with a synchronous “Knights!” echoing through the rafters.
After the coaches leave to go talk to the press, Drew walks up to me and asks the question everyone in the room is thinking.
“Dude, why didn’t you take a shot?”
I heave out a sigh, knowing there was a chance they’d be pissed at me—as if I didn’t give it my all this game.
“I would’ve if I had a shot open,” I say, shrugging.
“But I passed when someone else had a better one.” I look at Drew first, then Colt, holding his gaze.
“I wanted you all to know you’ll be fine without me next year.
I’m not the only guy on this team who can make a goal, and I knew that from the beginning—I just needed the rest of you to see it, too. ”
Colt nods, but it’s Gally who speaks next. “You did good, Book. I think we taught them what we needed to teach.”
“You were in on it?” Drew asks, disbelievingly, turning to the goalie.
“All the seniors were,” Simmons answers, stripping off his jersey and pads.
“Booker texted us last night and told us what he wanted to do. We weren’t going to leave you all hanging; if Minnesota happened to come out on fire, we would’ve played like normal.
But we were holding our own, and so, when we saw an underclassman with a shot, we agreed to pass the puck off instead of shoot. ”
“You conniving motherfuckers,” Beau murmurs, but he’s grinning, nonetheless.
“Now just think how confident you’ll feel going out on the ice Saturday with a full team, after beating the projected winners of the entire tournament without your leading scorer,” Gally finishes, getting to the point of this entire ordeal.
I scan the room, all eyes on me while my fellow seniors stand at my side.
“Everyone in here was too worried about the possibility of playing Maryland again in the finals. If it comes down to them and us on the ice, I knew our mentality wouldn’t be what it needs to be to win.
I know they’re aggressive. I’ve heard the rumors that a lot of you think Kingston let us win in that shootout.
But I needed you all to believe in yourselves, because we can beat those motherfuckers!
” My voice climbs as I speak, coming to a shout at the last word, and the seniors at my back clap and whoop after I’m finished.
The rest of the team—the juniors and sophomores, and even the freshmen who didn’t play tonight—laughs and joins in, throwing out enthusiastic agreements.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve earned the title of Captain. Not because I’m the best player on the ice. Not because I’m already drafted to go pro. But because I’m able to support and encourage this team into believing in themselves.
The team finally disperses, undressing and heading in to shower. Turning to my gear bag, my mind travels as I remove my pads.
Everything I said before is true: I played without shooting tonight for the team. But I also can’t help but feel like I proved something to myself. Something vital.
My father would’ve never been okay with the way I played tonight. He would’ve—and probably is currently—been enraged that I didn’t try to score at all. I wasn’t sure how Coach would react, but I knew he was smart enough and observant enough to see I was passing off shots deliberately.
I worried he’d be pissed; that he would assume I put the entire team in jeopardy. But he was the opposite. Coach—Tom—was proud of me. He looked at me tonight in a way he hasn’t since I was a child, because I refused to let him take any pride in me as a person or as a player.
But after tonight, maybe I’m finally ready to clear the air with Tom Winchester.