Chapter 37 #2
My teammates surround me to celebrate, and I let them, but I keep stealing glances at the stands. Kendall is wiping her face with the sleeve of my jersey. Nick is standing and clapping, pointing at me and nodding like he’s passing something down. I see my mom and dad, with his arm around Addison.
Then there’s Jameson, grinning and pumping his fist, chanting, “Cross! Cross! Cross!” with the crowd.
“That’s one,” Callan yells in my ear while he’s got me in a headlock. “Just one more, and it’s yours, and then we’re tied. Let’s do this.”
The Kodiaks push back hard, but we match them hit for hit because we didn’t come this far to lose it now.
The game is 2 to 1, and the whole building knows what’s possible.
The energy crackles through the arena like lightning strikes during a storm.
Every time I touch the puck, I swear I can hear the fucking crowd hold its breath.
When there are eight minutes left, Callan steals the puck at center ice. I’m already moving, already breaking toward the net, because I know my teammates, and I know what’s coming. He passes to me, and suddenly, it’s the goalie and me with nothing but ice between us.
One-on-one—my favorite.
The crowd rises, and the noise is so loud that I feel it in my bones, in my teeth, vibrating through my skull.
I move left, then right, and the goalie bites, committing too early because he’s scared—which he motherfucking should be.
The puck soars over his glove, and I watch it sail into the back of the net like it’s returning home.
The horn blares.
PATTERSON CROSS—93 GOALS—ALL-TIME LEAGUE SCORING RECORD.
I broke it. After so many people told me it couldn’t be done, I did it. And the only person I look for in the stands is Kendall. She’s crying, holding heart hands. I return them back to her.
The arena erupts, bringing me back to reality. The game isn’t over yet.
We’re tied 2 to 2 with eight minutes left, and even though I broke the all-time record, we haven’t won anything. We can’t start celebrating. If we lose this game, I go home with a number one next to my name, but nothing else.
The personal record matters, sure, but what happens next means more because I didn’t get here alone.
Every damn goal I’ve ever scored came off a pass from someone else, a screen from a teammate, or a save from our goalie that kept us in the game.
If we don’t make it to the playoffs, I won’t get to celebrate this huge accomplishment with the guys who made it possible.
I skate back to the bench, and Callan grabs my helmet.
“One more, Patty. One more and we go to the playoffs.”
“Then we get one more.” I say it like it’s no big deal, but it’s huge.
The minutes tick down, and both teams are desperate. Bodies crash into boards, sticks slash, but our goalie makes save after save.
“Joseph Killian, goalie for the Angels, saves the day!” the announcer says.
The Kodiaks get a power play with three minutes left, and I’m on the ice for the penalty kill. I’m blocking shots even though my ribs are screaming, but I’ll deal with the pain tomorrow. Right now, the only thing that matters is keeping that puck out of our damn net.
We kill it off with two minutes left. One minute. Thirty seconds.
The buzzer sounds, and the game is still tied. We’re going into overtime.
It’s sudden death, which means the team that makes the next goal wins. This is it.
I suck in a deep breath and find Kendall in the stands as I gather with the guys.
Coach leans in. “You’ve done this before with no issue. You each know what you have to go out there and do. Play smart, be fast, and put the puck in the fucking net.”
We tap sticks and head back out. Every person is on their feet, and nervous energy ripples through the building. This adrenaline is what I live for.
The puck drops, and we both come out hard. It’s back and forth, chances on both ends. My heart is in my fucking throat every time the Kodiaks get close to our net. Three minutes in, Hunter nearly scores on a breakaway, but the goalie makes a ridiculous glove save.
“Bullshit!” Hunter slams his stick against the boards.
I tap his helmet. “Next one is yours.”
Five minutes. Six. Seven. Every shift feels like an eternity.
Then Callan steals the puck at center ice, and I’m already moving, already breaking toward the net. Suddenly, I have the puck.
“Here we fucking go again,” I mutter, smirking.
But the goalie isn’t falling for the same move twice. He stays deep in the crease, patient, waiting for me to commit first. I fake it, but he doesn’t bite, so I pull up short and look for another option.
Hunter is crashing the net from the left side. I slide the puck across to him, and he one-times it, but the goalie kicks it away with his pad. The rebound bounces back toward me, and I don’t have time to think, don’t have time to aim; I just swing my stick and connect.
I might as well have shot with my fucking eyes closed. A shot I’ve made a thousand times. But this time, it counts more than any of them.
It’s like everything moves in slow motion, and I watch the puck rocket toward the net. The goalie is still down from blocking Hunter’s shot. Bodies are scrambling everywhere.
Then … it hits the top corner, bar down, and it’s the sweetest fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
For a single heartbeat, the arena goes completely silent, and then the horn blares. It’s a roar I’ve never heard before.
Now the hats come. Hundreds of them rain down from every section, covering the ice while my teammates pile on top of me. I’m at the bottom of the heap, laughing like a maniac, ribs hurting, but not caring about the pain because we did it.
We fucking did it!
Not me. Us.
When they let me up, I find Hunter first and pull him into a hug. “That screen was everything.”
“You did the hard part.” He’s grinning so wide that I can see every tooth. “Hat trick in overtime to win the playoffs. You’re a fucking legend, Patty. Honored to play with you.”
I grab Callan next. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Damn right you couldn’t.” He’s crying. “We’re going to the playoffs!”
“That Cup is ours!”
It’s 3 to 2.
We win.
Ninety-four goals. I needed one to tie, another to break it, and added one more to grow on.
I skate a slow lap with my stick raised, taking in the hats covering the ice. The fans are losing their minds; the scoreboard flashing my name and the number ninety-four.
They chant my name, and it rolls through the building like thunder.
“CROSS! CROSS! CROSS! CROSS! CROSS!”
I look up at the stands and search through the chaos until I find her.
Kendall is gripping the railing with both hands, mascara streaked down her cheeks, laughing and crying at the same time. I point my stick directly at her.
The Jumbotron catches it, and suddenly, she’s on the screen, mouthing, I love you.
I think twenty thousand people turn to look at the woman in my jersey. Cell phones immediately go up in the air.
I skate toward the tunnel, and she’s already moving, pushing through the crowd.
By the time I reach the entrance, she’s there, running toward me.
I catch her and lift her off the ground, pulling her against me so tight that my pads dig into her, but she doesn’t care.
She wraps her legs around my waist and buries her face in my neck.
“You did it,” she says against my skin. “You’re the greatest goal scorer in league history.”
“That last one was for you.” I pull back enough to look at her, wiping the mascara from under her eyes with my gloved thumbs. “They all were.”
She laughs and desperately kisses me as my teammates stream past us into the tunnel. Someone whistles, but I don’t care.
We break apart when I hear a clearing of a throat behind us.
Coach is standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest.
He looks at me for a long moment, then at Kendall, still wrapped around me, then back at me. I set her down onto her feet, and she blushes.
“Hell of a game, Cross.”
“Thanks for letting me play.”
He shakes his head. “Like I had a choice.” He pauses. “Ninety-four goals. Not bad.”
“Not bad? Coach, I broke the all-time record.”
“Okay, don’t get cocky.” But he’s almost smiling. He extends his hand. “Sunday dinner?”
“Sure, I’ll be there,” I say, taking his grip.
He nods and looks at Kendall. His mustache twitches. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“It was the best game, Dad. You should be proud. You coached the best in the league.”
“You two are made for one another.” He chuckles and walks toward the locker room, pausing at the entrance to look back. “New all-time record with ninety-four goals.” He shakes his head. “My future son-in-law. Lord help me.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m laughing, and so is Kendall. As I move to kiss Kendall, Nick Banks appears next to me with his wife, Julie. He pulls me into a tight hug.
“I’m so fucking proud of you, Patty,” Nick says. “You earned every one of those goals.”
“Learned from the best.”
“Damn right you did.” He pulls back and grins. “Ninety-four goals. You crazy son of a bitch.”
“Someone had to knock you off that pedestal.”
“Glad it was you, kid.”
My mom, dad, Jameson, and Addison swarm us next. Everyone is hugging me, and they’re all talking over each other. The celebration carries us along. There’s champagne in the locker room and a handful of interviews I barely remember. The next few hours are blurry and rushed with joy.
When Kendall and I finally get a moment alone, she leans up and whispers in my ear, “I love you, Pattycakes.”
Months ago, she would’ve used the word hate. We were trading insults like currency, pretending we didn’t want to devour each other. Now she’s wearing my name on her back, and I’m wearing her on my skin, and I can’t remember why I ever thought this was something to be afraid of.
“I love you too, Ken Doll.” I kiss her forehead. “Now let’s get out of here before I do something I shouldn’t.”