22. Cole
Cole
Coach waited until every member of the team was huddled around him on the bench before speaking.
“We’re tied with ninety seconds left and have a man advantage.
I’m going to pull Christian out of the net to give us an extra two men.
If you can win this thing in regulation, I’ll give you the day off tomorrow. How’s that sound?”
Everyone murmured some form of agreement.
Except for Jagger, who shouted like an idiot, “Got a hot date tonight, Coach?”
I groaned into my gloved palm.
Keeping his composure, Davenport smoothed a hand over his suit jacket. “As a matter of fact, I do. So I suggest you get your ass out there and score because hell will rain down on you boys if you fuck up my chances of getting laid.”
Jagger clicked his tongue and winked. “You already took the blue pill and the clock’s ticking. Got it.”
I leaned over toward Crew. “Better start lining up a new defensive partner because your current one has a death wish.”
My twin lifted his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head. “No fucking kidding.”
The ref blew his whistle, indicating the end of our timeout. I—along with those assigned to the first power-play unit, with Travis Whitley as the sixth man—lined up for the face-off in the defensive zone across from the Charlotte Crusaders players.
Pulling the goalie while tied was a risk.
If the other team scored, we’d lose instead of taking the game to overtime and securing a point in the standings.
And the part that particularly sucked about doing it while on the power play was that if our opponents slung the puck toward our net and missed, they wouldn’t incur an icing.
We’d have to chase it down ourselves instead of getting a stoppage of play that brought it back into our zone.
But Davenport was a go-big-or-go-home type of guy, and he’d made it clear that if we wanted to crawl out of our spot at the bottom of the league, we couldn’t afford to play it safe.
So far, his plan was working; we’d already surpassed our eleven wins from last year, leaving us no choice but to buckle up for this crazy ride.
Glancing over my shoulder, I dipped my chin at Crew, letting him know the puck was coming his way, before returning my attention to the imminent face-off.
The Crusaders’ center laughed. “Your coach is an insane motherfucker.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I gritted out.
The puck was dropped, and muscle memory took over. It took less than a split-second for me to use my stick blade to send the black rubber disc back toward my brother. Then my head lifted, and I was moving into the slot, smack dab in the center of the offensive zone.
Crew made a D-to-D pass to Jagger, who skated deeper into the zone, swapping positions with Dylan. As soon as he drew a defender, he sent the puck to Levi.
We continued to use the space afforded to us by virtue of the Crusaders only having four men on the ice, but a quick peek at the scoreboard showed we were down to less than fifteen seconds.
If we didn’t take a shot soon, this thing would be headed to overtime, and we could kiss that day off goodbye.
I tapped my stick on the ice, calling for a pass. Travis rang the puck along the boards to me, then set up camp in front of the goalie, effectively screening him. The netminder kept trying to see around him, to track the play, but Travis was stuck to him like glue, taking away his vision.
It provided the perfect distraction, allowing Levi to shift lower, where he eyed the open back door.
I skated along the blue line, pretending like I was about to pass to Crew for a slap shot, only to slide the puck to Levi, who was poised for the one-timer. Lightning quick, he brought his stick to the ice, sending the puck careening toward the net.
“Fuck!” I yelled when it dinged off the red metal post a second before the buzzer sounded, indicating the end of regulation.
Dropping my hands to my knees, I bent in half while trying to catch my breath after a long, intense shift. I wouldn’t be given much time to recover since I’d be sent right back out again for the start of the three-on-three overtime.
“It went in! Check the video!” Levi’s impassioned cries reached my ears, and I straightened.
What the hell was he talking about? It hit the post. I saw it with my own two eyes.
Levi skated straight for the bench, demanding one of the tablets we kept on hand for real-time film review. He tapped on the screen to pull up what I could only assume were the final seconds of the third period.
“Right there!” He gestured wildly to the tablet, turning it toward Coach. “Challenge it.”
Leaning forward, he watched the clip, lips pressed into a thin line. “I see it, Nixon, but since it happened during the final minute of play, my hands are tied. A review would have to be called in from Toronto.”
I skated closer, extending a hand. “Let me see.”
When you slowed down the video, it was clear that the puck had gone inside the net, at the top right corner, only to somehow squeak its way past the woven netting. “Well, I’ll be damned. You shot it right through the fucking net.”
As soon as I said that, everyone wanted to get a glimpse of what should, by all rights, be impossible.
There was a sharp whistle, calling us for the start of overtime, but none of us moved to line up.
Impatient, the ref barked, “Stop stalling, or I’ll call a penalty for delay of game.”
Coach sighed. “You heard the man. Get your asses out there.”
“We still gonna get tomorrow off even though they didn’t count Levi’s game-winning goal?” someone shouted from further down the bench.
“Find a way to secure those two points, and we have a deal.”
“All right, boys. Looks like we’ve got a job to do,” I shouted before dragging an annoyed Levi to join me for the face-off. Crew would act as the lone defenseman, since we were only allowed three players on the ice.
The puck was poised over center ice, ready to be dropped, when the ref withdrew suddenly. Both the Crusaders’ center and I straightened, looking at him expectantly.
Pressing the button on his mic pack, the man’s voice boomed through the arena speakers. “We have an official review to determine whether the puck went into the net.”
Cheers came from the home crowd; the hope that we’d won this game in regulation renewed.
The refs gathered at the video review area, donning headphones as they spoke with league officials in Toronto.
Levi’s gaze was firmly fixed on their backs, and unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, his chest wasn’t expanding.
I nudged him with my shoulder. “Breathe, man. No matter which way this goes, we’ll find a way to win.”
His lungs emptied. “It’s a good goal.”
“I agree, but you know how finicky the review process can be. There has to be definitive video evidence to overturn a call on the ice.”
My teammate grumbled something under his breath to the effect that the league was out to screw us because we were their least profitable franchise, and they were looking for an excuse to relocate the team to a market that would make them more money.
He wasn’t wrong on either count. There were enough calls that should have gone our way and hadn’t to raise suspicion.
And there was no denying that Southern California wasn’t exactly a hockey hotbed, and two teams in the area was possibly one too many.
The Cougars claimed most of the tiny fanbase, while the Surf had struggled for decades to fill their arena.
The only reason we had a packed house now was because people showed up hoping to catch an in-person glimpse of Coach’s legendary shenanigans.
It wasn’t long before the refs shucked their headphones, and it felt as though every one of the fifteen thousand people in attendance held their breath as the lead official returned to center ice to deliver the verdict.
“After further review, the puck went through the net. Therefore, it is a good goal.”
The entire arena erupted in celebration so loud that it drowned out the second part of the official’s announcement that the clock would reset to two seconds remaining in the third period—the time at which the goal had been scored.
Jagger and Dylan hopped the boards to join us for the puck drop that would now take place in regulation instead of overtime, with the Surf having all but secured the win.
I gave Levi a playful punch to the shoulder. “Feel better?”
He shook his head, a relieved smile on his lips. “You have no idea. That call was the difference between me being seen as a hero to my fifteen-year-old or having him troll me for weeks on end.”
My laughter couldn’t be contained. Austin was a brutal critic on the best of days, and he was exactly what my formerly cocky teammate needed to bring him back down to earth.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Just wait until you have a kid. Won’t be so funny anymore.”
I clapped him on the back. “Sorry to disappoint, but that’s not in the cards for me.”
He snorted. “Yeah, I thought that once too. Now look at me.”
Levi had been arguably one of the league’s biggest playboys.
By the law of averages, it wasn’t too surprising that one of his countless trysts had resulted in a child.
As for me, I’d only slept with two women in my entire life, so the odds of a kid showing up on my doorstep claiming to be mine were nonexistent.
Throw in the fact that I’d taken matters into my own hands and had a procedure a few years back, and I was confident that I would remain childfree.
Kids were great—Levi’s in particular held a special place in my heart—but I’d never felt the desire to have any of my own.
The ref blew his whistle, drawing our attention.
“Let’s get this win and go home,” I tossed over my shoulder as I skated toward center ice.
Both teams lined up, and within a heartbeat of the puck being dropped, the final buzzer echoed throughout the arena.
Every member of the Surf jumped off the bench to celebrate, swarming Levi for scoring the game-winner while the crowd around us went wild.
Someone shouted that we needed to go out for drinks, but there was only one person I wanted to spend the rest of my night with.
My girl.