Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ARTHUR
“Less chirping, more scoring, Crawford.”
Austin flashes me his signature cocky grin and fires back, “You got it, Coach,” before vaulting over the boards and charging into his shift. We are down by one early in the third period, the worst kind of deficit. Close enough to taste.
My guys are pushing hard. Every shift is fast and physical, bodies crashing along the boards, sticks hacking and lifting, skates carving deep lines into the ice. Florida’s defence is locked in, clogging passing lanes and collapsing around the net like a wall.
I force myself not to look at the clock as the seconds tick by, heavy and cruel.
Suddenly, one of Florida’s forwards picks off a pass at the blue line and explodes up the ice. The crowd surges to its feet as he barrels toward our goal, alone. A clean breakaway. My pulse slams in my ears. Time stretches thin as he winds up, weight shifting, blade opening.
The shot comes.
We wait for the horn.
It never sounds.
Instead, the building erupts with the roar of eighteen thousand furious Florida fans, because Foster fucking James has just made a diving glove save that spits in the face of physics and defies logic entirely.
He stretches full out, body parallel to the ice, glove snapping shut with a sharp crack that echoes through the arena.
Our bench explodes in relief. A chorus of disbelief and awe rises above the noise. “Jesus, James!” “Fozzie Bear!” Someone pounds the boards so hard the whole bench rattles.
But there is no time to celebrate. The puck is back in play. The crowd is still screaming. And despite a save that will dominate highlight reels by morning, we are still losing.
When the clock hits eight minutes remaining, I raise my hand and call a timeout.
I lean in close so my guys can hear me over the crowd, over the blood rushing in their ears.
“Alright. Eyes on me.”
The circle tightens. Sweat drips off helmets. Chests heave. Eight minutes glows red on the clock above us.
“We are down one. That is it. One goal,” I say, steady and sharp. “I don’t need heroics. What I need is execution.”
I jab a finger at the whiteboard my assistant coach Don holds. “We get the puck deep. Defence, you keep it alive at the blue line. No blind clears. No hope plays.”
I look straight at Crawford. “Austin, you want to talk shit? You earn it. I want the puck on your stick. Every chance we get.”
Then I sweep my gaze across the rest of the line. “You two feed him. Low to high. Net front, I want traffic. I want their goalie guessing. Tips. Rebounds. Ugly ones count the same.”
I tap the board again. “If you do not have a lane, you move your goddamn feet until you do. If you lose the puck, you get it back. We roll fast lines, keep the pressure on, and we do not let them breathe.”
I straighten up. “Eight minutes is a lifetime. We tie this game and then we win it.”
I pause, let it sink in.
“Now, go get me one.”
I see it the second the whistle blows. The shift in their posture. The way their shoulders square and their skates dig in. They wanted it before. Now they fucking need it.
Michaels takes control of the puck and snaps it up to Watts. Florida collapses into their defensive shell, sticks out, lanes clogged. Noah sells the drive just long enough to pull them toward him, then slips the puck to Austin.
That is all he needs.
He looks for daylight. Does not find it. So he makes his own. He cuts inside, skates churning, the puck glued to his stick as he carves through two defenders. A third reaches. Misses. Austin dekes the goalie out of his crease and buries it.
The red light flashes.
The building groans.
I shake my head and do something I almost never do during a game.
I smile.
Austin disappears under a swarm of gloves and arms. Helmets knock together. Someone pounds him on the back hard enough to rattle teeth. When he finally breaks free, he skates past our bench and lifts one gloved finger in the air.
I nod once at the cocky little shit.
One more, kid.
With just over five minutes left, we win the faceoff clean. The energy on the ice has changed completely. Florida is breathing heavy now. Legs slower. Reactions half a beat late. My guys smell it and they press harder.
We are going to win this fucking game. One more goal. One more win. One more step closer to the Cup.
Will Oliver battles along the boards in our zone.
He digs the puck free and sends it up to Alexei Pavlov.
The man is nearly my age and somehow still skating like his knees are made of steel.
Pavlov drives the zone, eyes up, searching.
He tries to force a lane to the net. Gets shut down.
Without hesitation, he dishes it to Austin.
Florida panics.
Their defence surges, all focus locked on our top scorer. One defender steps up. Another comes hard from behind. Sticks clash. Skates tangle. The puck skitters for a split second and then Austin pulls it back in.
It is mayhem.
The trailing defender tries to untangle himself from the mess, scrambling to regain balance. He pitches forward, off angle, out of control. His skate blade comes down hard.
Right into the back of Austin’s lower right calf.
It’s like watching my own injury happen again. Except this time there is no grainy, pre-4K replay footage softened by distance and bad angles. This is sharp and immediate and unfolding in real time, a nightmare I cannot look away from.
My brain scrambles to make sense of the scene.
The Florida defensemen have pushed themselves back to their skates, already resetting, but Austin is still face down on the ice.
Motionless. The seconds stretch and thicken.
I watch Will charge up the ice. He is known for his size, not his temper, but Austin is one of his closest friends on this team.
The shove comes hard and violent, a full body check of rage and frustration.
Gloves drop. Sticks clatter. Voices rise. Shouting. Shoving. Chaos explodes around the spot where Austin lies. The refs wade in, arms out, barking orders. Even players from both teams try to pull bodies apart, trying to stop the situation from turning uglier.
Then I see Rose O’Brien, our head trainer, moving fast across the ice. She drops to her knees beside Austin, her body shielding him as she bends low to speak into his ear.
For the first time in my coaching career, I think I might pass out.
Austin is still down. His back rises and falls in uneven, laboured breaths. My chest tightens as the memory slams into me, raw and unwelcome. My own injury. The sound. The helplessness. But this is worse.
Because Austin is twenty-five years old. His best years should still be waiting for him. And the idea that they could be ripped away from him makes something twist violently inside my gut. It is so fucking unfair. Just like it was unfair when it happened to me.
And I sent him out there.
I told him to finish it. Told him to get me the win.
I watch Rose keep talking, her head close to his helmet, her hands steady and calm. Too calm. Why has she not called for the medics? They are standing right there, stretcher ready, waiting for her signal. They will not move until she gives it.
So what the fuck is she waiting for?
I am already leaning forward, already bracing to jump the boards, bad leg and all, when Austin plants one gloved hand against the ice.
My heart lurches.
He is trying to get up.
No. He is getting up.
And then I notice something I somehow missed in the confusion.
There’s no blood.
If his Achilles had been cut, there would be blood. A lot of it. Dark and unmistakable against the ice.
But the ice beneath him is still clean. White as snow.
Austin is on all fours now, helmet bowed, one glove pressed into the ice while Rose stays close, talking steadily, grounding him. He nods at something she says and then, slowly, carefully, he pushes himself upright.
The fights have been broken up and the ice is suddenly wide and exposed. Every eye follows Austin as he makes his way back toward our bench, skating gingerly at first. Will stays glued to one side of him, Rose to the other, a protective escort through the noise and the tension.
I do not breathe again until he reaches us.
He sits on the bench, and I lean in immediately.
“Are you alright?”
He’s still working to catch his breath, chest rising and falling hard. It is Rose who answers first. “He is okay. Just got the wind knocked out of him.”
“I’m fine,” Austin insists, though his voice is rough. He looks pale and spent, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, but nothing appears broken. Nothing twisted.
“Your leg?” I press.
“It’s fine.” He stretches his right leg out in front of him, rotates his ankle slowly, deliberately, meeting my eyes as he does it. “I’m wearing Kevlar socks.”
Thank God.
A relatively new piece of equipment, only just starting to gain traction around the league. Designed specifically to protect the Achilles. Designed to stop careers from ending in a single, brutal second.
I pat Crawford on the shoulder, the relief hitting me hard. “Good job, kid.”
I straighten and look down the bench. My players are watching me, faces tight, jaws set, waiting. The refs are already moving into position, hands on their whistles, ready to restart play.
I swallow hard, forcing down emotions I have kept buried for far too long.
We are not done yet.
“Let’s finish this.”