23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE #3
Blue turns around. The guy says something. I’m already moving toward them because I know Blue. Blue looks at him for a second. Then he skates to the faceoff dot.
Benson passes him on the way in. “Good.”
Blue doesn’t answer.
The puck drops.
That’s most of the second period. Get it out. Get off when we can. Don’t give Minnesota the middle. Percy talks behind us every time the puck comes back — *time, reverse, wheel, leave it *— and Minnesota gets more frustrated the longer nothing happens.
Nobody scores.
We go to the second intermission still tied.
Fuller makes two adjustments and tells us Minnesota’s defensemen are pinching earlier now.
“The next one might be enough,” he says.
Stanley looks across the room.
“So score it.”
Benson throws a towel at him.
The third is seven minutes old when Benson wins a draw cleanly back to me. There’s traffic in front, so I don’t shoot for the net. I shoot for Owens’ stick.
He gets a piece of it.
The puck changes direction and misses the post by maybe six inches.
Owens tips his head back.
On the way past him, I tap my stick against his shin pad. “Again.”
He nods.
A couple shifts later, Marsh gets tied up below the goal line and kicks the puck toward the corner instead of trying to force his stick free. Theo gets there first and throws it toward the crease. It hits one skate. Then another.
The puck dies in front.
Owens is already there.
His first shot hits the goalie’s pad. The rebound drops into his skates while a Minnesota defenseman shoves him from behind.
Owens nearly goes down. He stays with it and gets his stick underneath the puck again. Jams. Bodies collapse around the crease, and for a second I can’t see anything. Then Owens throws both arms up.
The referee points.
Our bench erupts.
Walker Owens comes out of the pile with his mouthguard hanging out and his eyes huge like he’s as surprised as everybody else.
2-1.
There are a little more than eleven minutes left.
Minnesota starts pushing harder, and Fuller shortens the bench. Mackey and I are playing enough that I stop looking at how long I’ve been sitting between shifts because the answer is never long enough.
Then Marsh gets called for hooking with 6:12 left. He looks up at the replay while skating toward the box, sees his stick underneath the guy’s hands and exhales.
“Yeah. Okay.”
The door shuts.
Mackey and I take the first unit.
Minnesota gets one clean look from the circle that Percy catches. Another gets tipped over the glass. I get a clearing lane once and put the puck directly into their defenseman’s glove at the line.
“Fuck.”
“Again,” Mackey says.
Ten seconds later, it comes back to me. This time I put it off the glass. It gets out. Marsh comes out of the box while Minnesota is regrouping and jumps straight back into the play.
When I finally get to the bench, Benson drops beside me breathing through his mouth.
He looks at the clock. “Four.”
“Yeah.”
He squeezes the back of my neck once, then Fuller calls his line and he’s gone again.
The next two minutes disappear into clears, changes and Minnesota trying to get us trapped in our end. Nobody gets much. Nobody gets comfortable.
With a little over two minutes left, their goalie goes to the bench.
Six skaters.
Minnesota calls timeout, and Fuller has the board out before we reach him.
“Reeve takes the draw. Laurens, Mackey, stay inside. Blue high if we get possession. Do not chase the empty net.”
The official whistles us back.
Benson crouches over the dot. The puck drops. Minnesota gets possession and keeps it. They work it high, down the wall and back across while we stay inside. Mackey takes a shot somewhere around the hip. Benson gets his stick into another one. Percy kicks one wide through traffic.
We clear it once. They come right back. Under a minute. Their winger sends the puck behind the net, and Percy looks over his shoulder.
“Back.”
Their weak-side forward is already coming down.
Mackey gets his stick into the lane, but the puck clips his blade and slides through the crease anyway.
Minnesota collects it on the other side.
They throw it straight back into the middle.
Percy makes the first save with his shoulder.
The rebound drops directly into the slot.
Half the net is open. Their center gets there.
Shoots. Percy throws his right pad across. The puck hits it instead of the net.
Our bench makes one sound.
Mackey gets to the rebound and sends it hard off the glass. It clears.
Nineteen seconds.
Minnesota has to turn all the way back. They come through center one more time and dump the puck behind us.
Blue gets there first. The net at the other end is empty.
For half a second, I think he’s going to turn and shoot.
He doesn’t. He puts his body between the puck and the first Minnesota player and pins it against the wall.
Another guy joins them. Blue keeps his skate on it.
Four.
They dig.
Three.
The puck stays there.
Two.
The horn goes.
For a second, I just stand there.
The clock says zero.
Then Mackey hits me from behind hard enough that I drop onto one knee.
The bench empties.
Percy disappears under a pile almost immediately. Stanley gets to me and grabs both sides of my helmet, screaming directly into my cage. I can’t understand a word.
Owens is somewhere near the crease getting mauled by everybody who can reach him. Benson hits Stanley from the side. Blue gets there a second later. I get back to my feet and look at the scoreboard.
Camden 2.
Minnesota 1.
Then somebody grabs me again.
We’re playing for a national championship.
The handshake line is completely different when you’re the one going through it upright.
Their captain says, “Good luck Saturday,” and means it.
Their goalie says nothing and shakes my hand and moves on, and I don’t blame him.
A kid I played against in juniors holds on for a second and says, “Go get it.” Then we come off, and there’s a camera in the tunnel, and the room is out of its mind.
Somebody’s got music on inside four minutes. Marsh has taken off everything and is standing on a bench. Owens is being physically assaulted by six people because he scored the winner, and nobody in this room can quite believe it was Owens who did.
And then it’s Stanley, from the middle of the floor, with a towel around his neck, hollers, “One fucking game.”
The room comes down. We all look at each other. I get the chills when Benson and I look at each other. I glance at Trent. He nods at me. I look back at Stanley. He howls. The rest of us howl like wolves.
The corridor is full — there are families and kids and about nine people from Camden with credentials. Benson’s already got his mother in a headlock and his father is shaking hands with somebody’s uncle.
Gianna comes at me at speed. “Rowan!”
“G.” I smile and catch her.
“One!” she says to me, and she’s got both arms around my neck. She is somewhere between laughing and crying, and then she kisses me.
Then she sees an opening to tackle Benson. She rushes him and pulls him into a big hug. I don’t hear what she’s saying, but he lights up when she shakes his shoulders. Then she points at me. He looks over and nods.
She shoves Lucy next to him and takes a picture. I walk over and say, “Get in there.”
She smiles big, hugging her brother and Lucy.
Then Benson grabs the phone and says, “Come on, you two.”
She jumps into my arms, and I laugh while Benson takes a picture of the two of us. She grabs my face and kisses me.
I pull back and say, “You’re cute when you’re happy.”
She blushes and kisses me again.
“Okay,” her mom says. “Now one of the family, please.”
She hops down and takes a photo with her mom, dad, and Benson.
When we get back to the hotel, it’s past eleven.
My body is so sore, so I run the hottest water possible and stand under it for a while.
Mackey’s asleep by the time I get into my bed.
There’s a meeting at nine tomorrow and then a day off, which is a strange thing to be given in the middle of the last week of a season.
I lie there with my phone on my chest.
Gianna: National championship boyfriend.
Me: Is that a thing?
Gianna: It is now.
Gianna: Goodnight. You were so good tonight. I mean it.
Me: Night, G.
I put the phone on the nightstand and then pick it back up, because Coach sent the schedule to the group at eleven and I’ve only read the first line of it.
Saturday. Puck drop at five.
Michigan.
Michigan, who took the conference title in Detroit three weeks ago while I stood on a blue line and watched somebody else’s team pile onto their goalie.
One more game.