22. Shay #2
Jensen Donnelley, Reed’s defensive partner, already has a clear path to the Hall of Fame with the way he’s playing, especially after coming off of an injury last season. He’s a major factor in our winning. He’s also engaged to one of the team’s physical therapists, and they’re a major power couple.
And finally … Matt MacArthur, the starting goalie for the Nighthawks, who would rather make everyone else smile and laugh than to have the attention on himself. He is the oldest of the starting group, and while he isolates himself a lot, he’s just as important to the guys as everyone else.
He plays hard, loves harder, and is passionate about leaving nothing on the table. These last couple of months, he’s had the highest highs and the lowest lows, but he gets up every day and faces the unknown all the same, carrying the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.
After the opening ceremonies, the lights turn on, and I swear my skin starts to hum, my heart rate spiking before the puck is even dropped at the center of the ice.
This is it. This game could make history.
I can’t tell if my body is vibrating from my own excitement or from the energy in the arena because I didn’t even know it was possible for it to get this loud. It’s a sold-out game, which I’m not surprised by, but seeing the fan base in full force is a whole other ball game.
Matt finishes carving up his crease before tapping his stick against each post—a tradition for most goalies. It might look like they’re the ones stopping every shot, but the goalposts also play a major role in defense. Sometimes, they make the most important saves.
The linesman’s arm in the air at the center dot draws my focus to the guys setting up, with Reed taking the face-off against Owen Knox.
Here we go.
I swear time slows as the linesman opens his hand and releases the puck. Reed and Owen fight for it, but Reed wins, dishing it between his legs to Alec. The outcome never comes down to a single face-off, but every single one counts.
Alec leads the puck into the zone, Brett entering not a second later across the way. They pass the blue line, setting it up to run a play. The Wild’s defense is tight though, and if their passes aren’t perfect, the Wild will take advantage.
“Hey, Shay,” Andy murmurs.
I can’t look at him right now. I can barely stay on my feet. I’m so anxious. “What?”
He gently squeezes my shoulder, my arms now crossed against my chest. “Take a breath for me.”
I inhale, and my lungs burn. I cough. God, was I holding my breath? What the hell?
“Thanks,” I murmur, watching the Wild entering their zone.
Matt is locked and ready, and the Wild make a great attempt to score. One of their forwards flicks his wrist, the puck soaring through the players and pinging off of the crossbar.
Matt’s view was completely blocked by one of their defensemen, and if that shot had been an inch lower, they would’ve scored. That was a close one.
I’m sure he’s mentally stressed about that, but sometimes, there’s not much we can do when the offense is flawless, nothing without a small miracle.
After a strategic line change, we take another couple unsuccessful shots in our zone.
A couple looked promising, but the goalie’s locked in.
Alec fires toward the net, and the puck bounces off his blocker.
Cam gets the rebound, quickly firing it back toward the goalie’s shoulder, but he stretches upward, taking the shot off the shoulder.
Chaos ensues as their goalie dives for the puck. My heart rate spikes, and Andy winces beside me. Glancing down, I find his arm in the iron grasp of my hand, the tips of my fingers stark white.
“Oh, sorry.” I rip my hand away and turn back to the game.
He only chuckles and assures me it’s okay.
The scrum clears, and the goalie tosses the puck up to the linesman. Back and forth, neither team can seem to break the wall in front of the net. Both goalies are playing impeccably, but eventually, something has to give.
After the next ten minutes of damn near nonstop play, there’s a TV time-out.
I can’t hear him from here, but Carrington is an angry force on the bench, staring into all of the players’ souls.
Matt’s not in the huddle. He’s skating figure eights around the net as the ice crew work around him to clean the snow, which isn’t abnormal for him or any other goalie.
They’re not usually a part of the huddles unless they’re summoned over, but that can be far and few between. As long as a goalie’s performing, they’re pretty free to manage their game on their own.
After the huddle, the tension in the arena feels tight. It’s charged and ready to break.
The Wild win the face-off, and Brett loses his feet, trying to steal the puck, putting the Wild on a short-lived advantage while they fly down the ice. It happens fast, and it happens smoothly.
Owen Knox dishes the puck out to his forward, who sends it over to the defenseman.
Knox sprays Matt as he sprints and slows by the net.
The defenseman fires, but Matt stops it with his forearm.
It bounces off him, and Knox hits the puck midair, sending it deep into the net and putting the first point on the board.
“Shake it off, Matt,” I whisper to myself, chewing on my cuticles and trying to bite my entire finger off from the nerves. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”
The Wild take extra enjoyment in celebrating their goal, making sure to skate past our bench, shouting what I’m sure are super-kind words to the players.
The crowd chants, “Let’s go, Nighthawks,” followed by five claps, the last three faster than the first two. They repeat it over and over as the game resets at center ice.
We win the face-off. Brett and Cam run a play, and to my complete disbelief, the goalie stops it. One hell of a stop. Their defense is weaker though; our guys are easily able to work them and work around them. It’s because of their goalie they’re winning right now.
For the most part, I can’t stop watching Matt.
As much as I don’t want to acknowledge it, there’s a heaviness in his shoulders that wasn’t there before their goal.
I can tell from thirty feet away and behind a mask that he’s thinking about it still.
About what he could’ve done better. About how it’s his fault that they’re winning.
But he has to shake that, or it’s going to eat him alive.
The Wild gain possession and enter the zone.
Matt is homed in, studying every angle, tracking every possible path the puck can take.
One of their forwards shifts his hips just a little, but enough to flag my mind.
But Matt doesn’t see it. He’s watching the other side of the ice, where the center is baiting him.
“Come on, Matt,” I murmur as the center passes over to the forward, who swings true, sending the puck soaring over Matt’s shoulder and beneath the crossbar.
Dammit.
Carrington curses behind the bench, as do a few of the other players, and the crowd falls silent. Goals happen; they do. It’s inevitable in this game. A shutout in game six of the finals? Not impossible, but incredibly unlikely.
The Wild boast their lead as they showboat past the bench before bumping knuckles with their teammates. Matt’s facing the net, shoulders heaving with his hands on the crossbar.
“You suck!” someone shouts from the crowd.
From the quietness, I can hear it, and I know Matt can, too, because his breath hitches for just a second.
Don’t let it get to you, Matt. You’ve got this.
There’s a saying, or perhaps a curse, in hockey—Two goals is the worst lead. It’s because anything can happen, and while the momentum may carry the winning team to the end, it can also put them in a comfortable spot, letting the underdog sneak in and steal the win.
That’s what’s going to happen tonight. We are going to win.
With only four seconds left in the first period, it quickly runs out after puck drop.
I know the players and staff will be quickly exiting, so I flatten myself back against the wall slightly.
And as if on cue, the bench clears and empties down the tunnel, followed by the players stepping off the ice.
Matt’s the last to leave it, and I hear a few “fans” mock him as he steps onto the rubber, his head down and eyes glued to the floor. I know Andy’s warned me about not interfering with him between periods, but he’s not on his A game. He’s in his head, and I’m going to help him get out of it.
Stepping into the walkway, I block his path and put my hand against his chest. “Stop.”
He inhales sharply, painfully, his gaze flicking quickly up to mine. Disappointment and heartbreak fill his stare. “Please move, Shay.”
We may fight about this as a couple later, but right now, I’m his coach with the best knowledge of him and how to pull him out of this.
“No.”
Fisting the front of his jersey, I spin on my heel and drag him behind me. Thankfully, he follows willingly. The man is massive. If he didn’t want to, he easily could’ve stopped me.
“Shay,” he begs, his voice soft and weak.
But I ignore him, continuing to pull him to the only place I know we can talk in private—the very room we first met when he was there for me in my time of need. Well, it’s time I repay that favor.
Flexing my hand, I reach out and take the doorknob with my left hand, begging it to be strong right now. Angling my wrist, I slowly twist it, and it clicks open, a burst of pride hitting my adrenaline. I pull him inside the room and shut the door behind us, locking it so no one interrupts.
His back is to me when I turn around, his helmet still on but his gloves and stick now on the ground. His shoulders are rising and falling fast, his breathing erratic. I give him a second to his own thoughts.
A heavy sigh, almost a growl, tears through him as he rips his helmet off of his head and throws it against the mats stacked across the room. “Fuck!”