Chapter 41
The piercing blast of the horn signals the start of Game Two of the Conference Finals, and I can feel the charged atmosphere penetrate every corner of the arena. The Red Wolves are facing off against the formidable Montreal Saints again and there is some animosity that hangs heavy over the rink. This is Elliot’s former team. Just last year he was wearing their colors. Now everything has changed for both teams. Armed with my microphone, I am rink-side, ready to capture every moment of the drama.
The game kicks off with intense energy, both teams displaying a fierce determination to dominate the ice. As the Red Wolves' offense surges forward with surprising vigor, it becomes clear they are not going to make it easy for their rivals. They are skating hard, the puck seemingly glued to their sticks as they maneuver around the Saints’ defense.
As the final buzzer echoes through the arena, signaling the end of Game Two, the scoreboard displays an undeniable victory for the Red Wolves: 8-2. It's an exhilarating showcase of hockey prowess, with Arizona capitalizing on every conceivable shot on goal. The Saints, impressive as they are, have simply been outplayed this evening. The energy from the crowd is crazy, their cheers almost deafening as they celebrate each goal. Standing rink-side, I can feel the intense satisfaction emanating from the players as they acknowledge their fans and each other for the brilliant plays. Each line performed exceptionally, turning potential shots into points on the board. As a reporter, capturing this moment can show another side to the sport; the personal side to it all. Sure, the sheer dominance displayed by the Red Wolves tonight is not just a game won—it is a statement made, but there is more to it than that.
As the team jets off to Montreal for games three and four, I am stuck traveling separately from the team due to last minute media additions that my boss added to my schedule. The absence of my usual in-flight banter with the players, specifically a star goalie, leaves a large void. So, I turn to my phone, seeking connection through texts.
Elliot and I message back and forth while I wait for my flight, our conversation a mix of playful musings and nonsense about the upcoming games. Each vibration of my phone brings a little jolt of excitement. It is oddly comforting to be able to just talk with him so freely. At this point, all of the nerves that were building before, the concerns to distance myself—they all feel pointless. So, I embrace the now and just go with it, something I am very much not used to.
Ziggy: Just boarded.
This plane's got
nothing on the team jet.
Missing my favorite
seatmate.
: Guess you’ll have
to settle for imagining my
charming commentary.
Let me guess…
hogging the armrest,
right
Ziggy: Guilty as charged.
How’d you know?
: It’s called goalie
intuition. Comes with the
territory.
Ziggy: You better not
let me down this series
I have high expectations,
Mr. Star Goalie.
: Expectations, huh?
Aren't you supposed to be
unbiased, Miss Reporter?
Ziggy: Oh, I’m all for fairness.
How about I don’t
cheer for either team.
: Ouch, that’s cold.
You know, a kiss for good luck,
might help me save a
few more pucks.
Ziggy: I’m not sure if
that’s how luck works.
Ziggy: Consider it an
investment in your Shutouts.
: Coffee is
also good luck...
I’m also accepting coffee
deliveries to my locker
rom Montreal’s best.
unbiased, Miss Reporter?
Ziggy: Only if it comes
with a postgame
exclusive interview.
: You drive a hard
bargain, Miss Blackwater.
Deal, it’s a date, but only if
you promise not to run off to
interview the opposing team
right after.
Ziggy: No promises!
: See you in
Montreal, Zig.
Make sure to wave.
I’ll be the one stopping
all the pucks.
As the teams warm up for Game Three, I catch up with Elliot just off the rink, his face set in a mask of determination.
"Elliot, after that incredible performance in Game Two, how are you feeling going into tonight's match?" I ask, keeping my tone light but encouraging. He flashes a quick, confident smile, the kind that always hints at the depth of his focus.
"We're feeling strong and ready, Ziggy. The last game gave us a lot of momentum, and we're just looking to build on that," he responds, his eyes scanning the ice as his teammates continue their drills. "The plan is to keep the pressure high and seize every opportunity. We're not underestimating them, but we're here to win." His words aren't just for the fans; they also feel like a personal reassurance.
During the first intermission, I catch up with Coach Wilder. His eyes light with a strategic fire as we discuss the game plan. “We’ve upped the ante on our offensive plays. It’s all about maintaining pressure and not giving them room to breathe,” he explains, his gaze never wavering from the players returning to the ice. I note his intense focus, the way his words mirror the aggressive gameplay we have seen.
Before he makes it to the ice, I manage to snag a few moments with Ford, the captain, his jersey damp with exertion. “The Saints are tough, but we've got the heart. We’ve studied their tactics extensively. We know where we need to be and when. It’s just a matter of execution now,” he says, his confidence infectious as I see the pride he has in his team.
The atmosphere before Game Four feels different. Maybe it's because I’m interviewing the opposing team last. It doesn't feel right to not see the Red Wolves as they skate onto the ice, but unfortunately that is life.
I approach the opposing team's bench, microphone in hand, ready to delve into their mindset after their recent loss. Montreal’s team captain, a veteran with steely determination in his eyes, doesn't hesitate when I ask about their approach for the night.
“We’ve adjusted our lines and strategies," he states confidently. "This isn’t over by a long shot.”
His tone is resolute, the undercurrent of his words carrying the promise of a fierce comeback. As the game unfolds, his prediction comes true. Despite the Red Wolves' aggressive play, the Saints meticulously execute their new game plan, clinching a narrow 2 to 1 victory. Their disciplined defense and adjustments pay off, extending the series and injecting new life into their fight toward the Cup.
After Montreal’s Game Four narrow victory, I catch up with their head coach, his face full of triumph. As we stand rink-side, he is more than eager to share his thoughts on the win.
"Tonight was a testament to our resilience," he begins, his voice firm and proud. "We knew we had to come out strong, make smart adjustments, and that’s exactly what we did. This win is just the beginning."
His confidence seems to swell as he leans closer to the microphone, a gleam in his eye. "We've found our groove now, and we're just getting started. The Red Wolves have had their run, but we're ready to take this series. They won't know what hit them in the next games." His words are bold, painting a picture of a team revitalized and ready to turn the tide of the series.
From my seat on the team plane back to Arizona, I can feel the apprehension in the air. Game Five is looming, and the stakes can't be higher. Coach Wilder paces the aisle, his voice stern and commanding as he addresses the team. I watch him closely as he moves to the front of the plane, eyes sweeping over the team. Clasping his hands behind his back, he clears his throat, signaling the start of an impassioned speech.
"Listen up, everyone," he begins, his voice carrying through the cabin with unwavering resolve. "I know the last couple of games haven’t gone as we planned. We’ve let them slip through our fingers, and for what? Because we got comfortable? Because we thought a couple of wins meant we could coast through the rest?"
He pauses, letting his words sink in, his gaze piercing each player. "We are the Phoenix Red Wolves, damn it! We need to get our heads out of our asses and play like the champions we are. This isn't just about talent—it's about heart, grit, and the fire to win. We've shown we can dominate on the ice, so what’s stopping us now?"
Shifting his weight, he continues, "We're going back home for Game Five, and I want to see a different team out there. I want to see the team that started this season with a promise to each other—that we’d go all the way. Where's that fire? Where's that commitment?"
He walks down the aisle slowly, making eye contact with each player. "We need to tighten our defense, sharpen our offense, and play every second of that game like it’s our last. No more missed opportunities, no more half-hearted plays. We need to be the predators, not the prey. We dictate the game, we set the pace, and we push harder than ever before."
Stopping, he looks back toward the front of the plane. "I believe in each and every one of you. I believe in this team. But belief isn’t enough—we need to act on it. We need to fight for it. Let’s use this flight back to reset, think about what you bring to that ice, and how you’re going to step up."
As he wraps up his speech, his voice softens but keeps its firm edge. "We have a chance to make history here, to bring that Cup home. Let's make sure we leave everything on the ice, so when we look back, regardless of the outcome, we know we gave it our all. Let's show them who the Red Wolves really are."
Nolan Wilder nods, giving a final look over the team. His goal is probably to fill them with encouragement. He seems to take stock in what he has accomplished. "Get some rest, refocus, and let’s bring the fight to them. We are not done yet. Not by a long shot."
As he returns to his seat, the team is silent, each player lost in thought, internalizing the weight of his words, ready to transform them into action once they hit the ice for Game Five. The apprehension from earlier is replaced with a sense of rejuvenation to the team's attitude, to their stamina. Just from the time that I have spent with the team I know they all want to win but, on this plane, I can feel how important this is to every single player.
Waking up alone in the large, empty hotel bed is a stark contrast to the mornings spent beside Elliot. The room feels colder, quieter, without his steady breath and warmth. Today is Game Five, a critical one, and the coach had decreed a team-only night to sharpen focus—a decision that left us separated. Pushing the lack of Elliot’s presence aside, I decide to embrace the morning on my own terms.
Phoenix welcomes me with its warm embrace and the allure of its unique culinary scene. I discover a delightful breakfast spot and tuck myself into a cozy corner with a view of the sun-drenched street. I order a hearty serving of chilaquiles with a perfectly cooked sunny-side-up egg on top, because why not? The meal is a delicious diversion, providing me a moment of solitude to collect my thoughts and brace for the excitement of the day ahead.
With breakfast lingering pleasantly in my stomach, I take a leisurely walk back to my hotel, the warmth of the city wrapping itself around my wandering thoughts. By mid-morning, I meet up with the cameramen, ready to dive into the whirlwind of pregame preparations. We head to the rink together, the familiar buzz of game time tingling in my veins. I'm starting to get the feeling that I might miss covering hockey when the time comes.
The buzzer sounds, heralding the end of a high-octane, goal-rich Game Five that seals the Red Wolves' victory and propels them into the Stanley Cup Finals. It is a display of sheer prowess and teamwork, with the team capitalizing on every power play opportunity that came their way. Elliot was a monumental figure in goal, his saves nothing short of spectacular, each one drawing roars from the crowd and affirming his status as a linchpin in the team's success.
The arena erupts into a frenzy of celebration. The ice is a blur of black and purple jerseys, sticks held high, as the Red Wolves embrace each other in contagious joy. Even from my vantage point in the press box, I can still feel how happy they all are, a proud smile spreading across my face.
The postgame press conference begins soon and I am ready. I wait for those participating to file in. Catching Elliot’s eye as he takes his seat, I give him a big wink—a silent message of congratulations. His answering grin is all the reassurance I need that tonight is not just a victory for the team, but a personal triumph.
I may have strategically situated myself to be the first in line to ask a question. And I know exactly what needs to be asked. I catch Elliot’s eye again, giving him a nod that blends the lines of our personal feelings and my professional role.
“Elliot,” I begin, my voice clear over the murmur of my colleagues, “congratulations on a phenomenal win tonight. Can you share with us what this victory means to you and the team as you head into the finals?”
Elliot leans into the microphone, his face wearing the residue of the game's intensity covered by a satisfied victory grin. “Thanks, Ziggy,” he starts, acknowledging our familiar rapport with a quick smile before turning serious.
“This win is huge for us, but it’s just another step toward our ultimate goal. This was a group effort—every line, every shift counted tonight. Our team showed great resilience and determination. We’re not just happy to be heading to the finals; we’re ready. We’ve got the momentum, the skill, and the teamwork to take us all the way. We’ll take tonight to celebrate, then it’s back to work. We want to bring the Cup home.”
His answer resonates through the room, an attestation to his leadership and the collective spirit of the team. The pride in his voice, the commitment to his team—it is all the narrative needs to capture the heart of this playoff season. As questions begin to fly and cameras click, my heart is light, buoyed by the promise of what is yet to come in the finals.