Chapter Twenty-One
Rip
We’d done it.
Won the first round of the division and were at home for the rubber game of the conference championship.
All the games had been hard fought, and our bodies were tired and beaten but not broken.
First series against the Atlanta Arctics we took four straight, but the next one was tougher—the Eastern Conference Final—and we were now tied at three wins a piece.
I had the highest number of penalties called on me in any postseason, which I attributed to scoring a hat trick in the first game and assisting on four other goals in the next three games.
The Nordics were out for blood—mine, personally, it seemed—and they’d achieved it.
I’d earned a fresh set of stitches on my chin, bruised ribs, and a wobbly front tooth that would require a visit to my oral surgeon, but that would have to wait until after the season was over.
Adrian had come to all the games, and each time he’d interviewed the players, I’d seen his confidence growing.
It was the day of the rubber game, and I was eating my lunch, trying to keep calm. All previous games with the Nordics played on a loop in my head, but at the moment I was more focused on Adrian’s wide eyes and pale face as he talked on the phone to Rob.
Shit. That didn’t look good. I set my sandwich on the plate, a sinking feeling in my stomach.
For weeks now, ever since his show aired, Adrian had been waiting to hear when he’d be able to prepare for his next show.
Rob, of course, kept him on a string, telling him they were trying to work “things” out.
But he remained cagey as to what those things might be, which meant Adrian took it personally and was a nervous wreck every day going into work.
Adrian ended the call and joined me at the island. “We have a meeting tomorrow morning with the station manager. Won’t say what about.”
I knew enough to keep a positive attitude. “That’s good. They want to tell you in person.”
“Or more likely, Rob wants to see my face when he gives me the bad news because he’s a sadistic SOB who enjoys delivering pain.” Adrian stared off into the distance.
“No way. Tonight we’re going to win the division, and tomorrow you’ll go into Rob’s office and hear what he has to say.
” I rose to my feet and stood behind him so I could slip my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek.
“You’ll get the show, and the Blades will win the title and go to the final.
” I tugged at his earlobe. “And you and I will celebrate all night long.”
“Of-of course you’ll win.” A shiver ran through Adrian, and I smiled.
“I love the support you give me. And I love you.” He settled into my chest.
“I love you too.”
That was the affirmation I began every day with.
I drank the rest of my water and shoved the last bite of my turkey sandwich into my mouth.
“I gotta go. See you tonight.” Without waiting for an answer, I hustled out of the apartment, shoving my keys and phone into my pocket.
The car I’d arranged waited to take me to Blades Arena.
I could’ve walked off some of the nervous energy accumulating before such an important game, but I knew it would be best to hold off on that until I got on the ice for practice.
“There he is. El Capitan,” Chitty yelled when I entered the locker room. “Are you ready?” He stood up and beat his chest. “We’re gonna win this thing. Smash it.”
“Try and be a little more enthusiastic, Chitty. Your negative attitude is bringing me down.” I punched him on the shoulder as I passed him on my way to my locker. “Keep it together, Rookie. Focus all that energy on the game.”
Seb slammed his locker door shut. “Rookie, if you think it’s been intense so far, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Be prepared and don’t act like we’ve got this.”
“Okay, listen up.” Coach came in and stood in the middle of the room.
“This is it. Season’s on the line, and I have to say, this has been one of the hardest-fought series we’ve played and that I’ve ever seen.
The Nordics want this because it would be their first division title in over twenty years.
We want this because we’ve been here and know the next step is the finals. We want the Cup.”
Everyone’s gaze swiveled to Seb and me. The elders on the team.
I folded my arms. “Coach is right. We can’t afford any slipups, misses, or almost-had-its.
Don’t wait for an opportunity. Make it happen.
We know where they’re weak and where they’re strong.
Play to their weaknesses. Force errors. We can do it.
We’ve already won the division. We need to do it one more time for the ultimate prize. The Cup.”
Everyone cheered and Seb pumped his arm. “Let’s go do this.”
We practiced, then rested. By the time the evening rolled around, we were on a hair trigger, ready to explode onto the ice. I gathered the guys for one last huddle.
“This is practice. Don’t go all out. Take shots on goal, do some breakaways, but nothing that’ll use too much energy. Save it for the game.”
“Got it, Cap.” Peter raised his stick. “We’ve got this!”
“Damn right. We will not be denied,” we all chanted and sped off in different directions.
My concentration remained solely on the ice—hitting slapshots, sprints, and shots on goal.
I didn’t sneak a peek to see if Adrian or Neil had arrived, yet I sensed they were there.
I couldn’t help but see Gordie in his usual spot, right behind the goal.
Poor bastard. I wondered if he had any idea what he’d gotten himself into.
After the announcements, I skated out to center ice and faced off against Nolan Larsson, the Nordics’ young, hotshot captain.
He had an attitude as wide as the Hudson River and just as ugly.
Larsson’s lips drew back in a pretend grin, which was more of a grimace.
The final game of the regular season he lost several teeth in a fight, and under his mouthguard, I knew he looked like a Halloween pumpkin.
“Ready, old man?”
I smirked. “Ready to teach you how to wipe your ass, punk.”
“Stay away from my ass, freak.” He glared.
“Enough already,” the ref snarled and held the puck between us.
I snapped to attention and kept my eye not on the puck, but on the ice so I could move the moment it hit the ice. Our blades battled and I won, taking the puck across the red line. Two Nordics wingers came up behind me, smashing into me on both sides, aiming to steal, but I was ready.
“Rip, to me,” I heard Seb scream, and I shot the puck his way.
Immediately, he spun it out to Chitty, who drove past the blue line to Peter, who passed back to Chitty.
The Nordics’ goalie, Siminov, came out in the crease, and Chitty prepared to take a shot, but on his left flank a Nordics’ defenseman sped up to block him.
“Peter, to your right,” I shouted. “Chitty, to Peter.”
Peter zipped through a tangle of bodies and blades to grab the puck and take the shot.
Siminov kicked it away, but Chitty, bless his rookie heart, stayed right there and grabbed it, smashing it with his blade.
It bounced off Siminov’s shoulder pad and sailed right into the net.
The light came on, and we’d drawn first blood.
We celebrated for all of two seconds before play resumed.
It was one of our toughest games, and the Nordics, for all that I razzed them about being young and inexperienced, were like a pack of starving wolves. They weren’t going to roll over.
During the shift change, I had a minute to sit and take a breath. I watched as Denis saved three shots on goal and got pissed that our defense was letting it happen. Seb was next to me on the bench.
“We gotta be tighter on the passes, man,” he said.
I chewed on my mouthguard. “Yeah. Next time we’re out there, we’ll do a split run.”
“You got it.”
Our rest time was up, and we jumped in. I nodded to Seb, and we took off.
Within four seconds, he was slammed into the boards, and I let out a vicious curse, but Chitty was right there to retrieve the puck.
He sliced it to me, and I dug my skates in, passing center ice.
I had one thing in mind, and that was to get the puck in the net, no matter what.
A hard smash to my shoulder only made me bite down harder, and I shot the puck to Seb, who flicked it to Lemoine, his counterpart.
Lemoine sent it up ice to Chitty, who didn’t have a clear shot.
“Chitty, to me, now,” I yelled, and he hesitated.
That inexperience cost us, as Rembowski, the Nordics’ hulking defenseman, zoomed in and took possession. He broke away and powered across the rink, where he faced Denis. His shot somehow slid past Denis’s pads, and the score was tied. The buzzer sounded, and it was time for the first intermission.
We trooped into the locker room, where I stomped over to Chitty. “I told you to send it to me.”
“I thought I could make the shot if I moved.”
I had no time for egos. “Fucking hell, Chitty. I gave you the play, but you wanted to get the glory of making the shot, didn’t you? That’s not how it works. The best person to make the shot gets it. Understand? We’re fighting for our lives here.”
He hung his head. “Yeah, Cap. I get it. Sorry.”
I cuffed him. “Look at me.” He met my eyes, misery clouding his normally cheerful face.
“You’re a good player, but if you want to be a champion, you need to start thinking of the team.
Sorry isn’t gonna be enough if we lose because of your ego.
” I gazed around the room, where my teammates sat in silence.
“That goes for all of us. I know we can do this. We’re gonna raise the pennant at the end of this game.
Eastern Division champs, then Stanley Cup champions. Am I right?”
“Fuck, yes,” everyone screamed, and the atmosphere, which had been mostly subdued, morphed into a passionate outburst of how we planned to kick the Nordics’ asses in the second period.