Chapter 42 Colt
Colt
My pulse pounds out of my chest, going a million fucking beats per minute, as I stare at myself in one of the locker room mirrors.
For the first time in nearly three months, I’ve put on my full pads and game-day jersey. With my helmet in my hands, I take deep, steadying breaths. The team’s already gone to line up in the tunnel, preparing to take the ice, and I asked Coach if I could have a minute alone.
One internal pep-talk later, I turn from my reflection, ready to brave the ice.
“Crosby, how do you feel about doing the face off?” Coach Winchester asks when we’re huddled at the bench.
My eyes widen. I’d never expect to center at such a high-stakes game. Booker has so much more experience than I do.
“Coach thinks having you face off with Kingston might catch ‘em by surprise, throw them off out of the gate,” Booker supplies in explanation.
I nod in agreement. “Okay. I got it.”
Spotting Stella up in the stands has the same effect on as dousing hot coals with a bucket of water. My heart slows, my head quiets, and everything fades away as I lock eyes with her. Nothing else matters as long as she’s here. She believes in me.
I’m going to win this game. Not for the fans, not for the team, not even for myself. I’m going to win for her; to show her that she didn’t lose me, and that none of her endless love and grace and patience went to waste.
The announcers call out the names of both teams’ first lines, and, for dramatic effect, my name is announced last.
“Finally, returning to the ice after a grueling three-month recovery…Colton Crosby!”
The cacophony of cheers is louder than any I’ve ever heard from a crowd, and my eyes burn at the thought that so many people came here to support me.
Skating to center ice, we’re finally ready to get this show on the road.
I get into position, crouching down nose-to-nose with Drake Kingston.
“Good to have you back, Crosby,” he says with a smirk; no sign of the serious, genuine guy I talked to all those weeks ago.
“Rested and ready to go. Better hope you can keep up,” I chirp back.
I catch the glint in his eye, excitement at the prospect of some healthy rivalry and not all-out aggression.
When the puck drops, I snatch it before he can blink, batting it to Simmons, who’s our left winger.
The game explodes from there, strong passes, rough checks, nobody able to score on either goalie. Plays become dirty and unrefined as both teams block and turnover.
After six grueling minutes of battle and line changes, trying to find the perfect mesh, Booker lands the first goal of the game with a fake-out move he’s been trying to teach me to perfect.
At the end of the first period, his goal is still the only one to be scored. Maryland turns things around in the second period, scoring two goals on us.
In the beginning of the third, I manage to score my first goal of the game. The crowd roars and the smile that breaks out across my face is contagious. Looking around, all of my teammates are grinning, too.
With newfound vigor, I skate back to center ice for the next face-off.
The clock continues to count down, and we’re stuck in this stalemate, both teams fighting too hard to give up another goal.
When regulation time expires, Coach prepares us for overtime—sudden death.
After giving us each our roles for the next five minutes, he takes Gally by the helmet and sternly instructs, “Don’t you let those bastards score.
” With a tense chuckle, we all head back out to the ice.
The sudden-death period comes and passes without a single point being scored, despite the aggression on the ice; we’re too evenly matched.
The buzzer sounds, signaling to the entire arena that there’s only one thing left to do: a shootout.
Both teams huddle back up at our respective benches as the coaches each choose their best three puck handlers to try to break the tie. Coach Winchester selects Drew, Booker, and me.
The opposing team always goes first during a shootout. Every person in the crowd is on their feet at this point. The suspense is palpable, sitting heavily on my lungs.
Don’t let the pressure get to you, son.
The voice in my head is my father’s. He said those words to me many times over the years.
Before my first big exam math exam in middle school, before I took my driver’s test, before tryouts at St. A’s.
I imagine him here now, speaking those words to me again, hand on my shoulder, pride shining in his eyes.
The first Maryland player takes off and shoots, but Gally blocks the puck beautifully with his left arm catcher, and the entire building roars in victory and applause. My voice is going to be hoarse after all this yelling and cheering.
Drew is up next, and he speeds down the ice. He takes a wrist shot to the bottom left corner of the net, and the goaltender barely makes the block by a hair’s breadth. The puck rattles into the goalpost without going in.
The fans let out a collective “Aww,” and I hear Drew curse from across the ice.
He skates back over to the bench, Booker and I each patting him on the back. I know he’s going to dwell on that miss, especially if we lose.
The next Maryland player takes center ice, and he successfully lands the first point of the shootout. Gally smacks his stick against the net frame, furious that one got past him.
Booker’s up next, and the entire arena holds its breath.
He speeds down center ice, not hinting to the Maryland goalie which direction his shot is going to come from.
When he’s a few feet away, he loads up for a wrist shot to the left, and when the goalie leans to block, Booker spins backward for a trick slap shot to the top right corner.
The deafening screams wash over us, and the entire bench joins in. This is why Book is Captain, first round draft pick. No one else could’ve pulled off what he just did. He returns to the bench, the guys all slapping him on the helmet and shoulders.
The shootout score stands at 1-1.
The noise dies down as the last Maryland player takes the ice.
Drake.
Kingston locks eyes with me for a moment, though he’s too far away for me to see the look he’s trying to convey.
Drake begins his ascent toward the goal, banking wide to the left. He cuts across the middle of the ice and takes a hurried—almost sloppy—wrist shot, trying for the five hole between Gally’s legs. Gally drops both knees to the ice, a flawless block.
For the third time, the crowd loses its mind as Drake skates back, head hung low, to his bench.
I don’t have time to contemplate whether or not Drake missed his shot on purpose before I’m ushered to center ice by a ref.
Taking a deep inhale of the cool, icy air, I turn and find Stella in the stands. Her eyes locked on me, she holds up her hand and gives me a flirty little finger wave—just like she did that first night at the bar—before taking that hand and resting it over her heart.
I feel myself smile as the noise and the chaos fades to the background.
Don’t let the pressure get to you, son.
I take off down the ice, alternating the puck from side to side. The goaltender watches my feet, my stick, trying to anticipate where I’m aiming.
I tense my arms, prepping for a wrist shot to the left.
As the goalie lunges, I cut my skates to the side at the last second, almost coming to a complete stop, spraying ice out in a frigid arc.
Before he can change directions, I take a backhand shot to the right of the goal, where the puck sails right below the goalie’s arm, swishing into the net with a flourish.
My surroundings come back into focus, the noise of the crowd returning to my ears in full force. The screams, the applause, the victory music playing over the speakers.
Ripping off my helmet, I don’t have a chance to move away from my place in front of the goal before my team rushes the ice and dog-piles me in a full-force group hug.
Holy shit.
We just won.
I just won.
The team eventually lets me go, and we skate toward the bench, where Coach Winchester takes me in a bear hug of his own.
The next few minutes blur by as we shake hands with the Maryland team.
When I get to Drake in the line, I nearly stop, squeezing his hand harder than necessary, but he doesn’t reveal any sort of indication that he missed his goal in order to let me have the winning shot.
Though I suspect it, I may never truly know.
Back at the bench, Stella’s waiting behind the glass, along with other family and friends.
I wave her forward, signaling that it’s all right for her to jump the boards.
She races toward me, throwing her arms around my neck in an all-encompassing embrace.
Pulling back, I kiss her, here in the middle of the ice, not caring who’s watching. I wouldn’t be here celebrating today without her. She brought me back to life, whether she takes credit for it or not.
And for once, instead of just living day in and day out, I’m finally looking forward to the future. My future with this team, my future in hockey, and my future with her.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says, resting her forehead to mine.
“I love you, Stell.”
I’ll never let her go. I’ll spend the rest of my life loving her, being grateful for her, adoring her.
But for now, the next stop is the Final Four.