Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
COOPER
The puck hits the back of the net. Instantaneously the buzzer goes off. Red light flashing: goal.
We’ve scored. I scored.
Not just any goal, my eighty-fifth of the season. Before this, the record was eighty-four by Ryn Carmichael, or better known to me as Dad.
I did it. I broke his record.
It wasn’t an achievement I set out for at the start of the season.
Thought it was impossible. A month or two in, I didn’t even think scoring this much was on the horizon.
We’d been through a rough patch, losing games in the third period by one goal after having the lead most of the first and second.
Things started to change around late November.
A minor change up to our lines and we became a new team.
It was around then that I started to notice the pace at which I was accumulating goals.
I knew Dad’s record—there’s a plaque in his office and a piece of the net from that game on a shelf with his college jersey.
I know all of his records and stats, proudly and unfortunately.
A week doesn’t go by that I’m not reminded of them during an interview or from a stupid article.
I’ve come close to a lot of them. Some I’ve surpassed, some I’m nowhere near—this is when I’d like to remind people that I’m not the great Ryn Carmichael, but I don’t.
Bite my tongue. Plaster the smile they expect, followed by an expected answer. I’m conditioned to it now.
But this record? Not a single NCAA player has come close to it in over a decade.
I ignored the nagging feeling inside of me, convincing me that I had to break it. Wish I could admit that I was strong enough to turn it off, but the strength I find on the ice vanishes as soon as I’m off it.
Then the interview with ESPN happened.
By January, it was another layer on top of all the others I was already wearing.
When I went a week without scoring, I thought I jinxed myself. Burnt myself out like a supernova. I was a mess on and off the ice.
Then I started with Sutton.
Whatever she’s doing is working—or maybe it’s the shift in our relationship. Either way, I’ve felt unstoppable. Repurposed. Aligned. I’ve felt in love with hockey again.
There’s been the added pressure, and yeah, I feel it, but for the first time, it’s not dragging me down. It’s not burying me away.
Sutton squeezed my hand twice, three nights ago, when I told her that I was okay not accomplishing this. I wanted it, but I knew I’d be okay if it didn’t happen. I didn’t feel defined by the accolades, but have been finding a way to play for myself again.
Did I give it my all? Am I having fun? I wanted to look back and say yes.
Dad texted me before the game.
Dad
I’m so proud of you, Cooper. The young man and player you’ve become makes me feel blessed to be a part of your life. Crush my scoring record, there’s no one else I’d want to take it away. I love you.
I read it for the seventeenth time during intermission.
I tied his record in the second period.
Going back out on the ice, everyone in the stands was on the edge of their seats. Even our opponents were holding their breath.
Would Cooper Carmichael steal away the record from his father?
I say all this—that I’m okay if I didn’t, and whatnot—but man, does it feel good. So fucking good.
My teammates pile on top of me. Every person is on their feet. Those along the boards pounding their fist, shaking the entire place. Our second and third lines jump over the boards and skate to the opposite side of the ice, joining in on the celebration.
The refs finally blow the whistle, ushering us from the start of what I know is going to be a long night of celebrating.
I wave at the crowd. Do a quick spin till I find her.
Sutton is waving at me. Decked out overalls over my jersey. Our number painted on her cheek. Auburn curls pulled up into space buns with our team colors as bows.
She cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Lucky shot, Superstar.” Winks. Then blows me a kiss.
I catch it with my glove, place it over my heart. Then, absentmindedly, and I’d like to blame the rush of euphoria and endorphins for what I do next, I mouth I love you, Dave.
Her hazels are like the eyes on a cartoon where they fall out of their faces. Her mouth is on the floor next to them.
That was not the way I thought I’d tell her that for the first time.
Jaxon skates over to me, claps my shoulder. “That shot was a beauty. You’re easily making it onto ESPN’s top ten plays of the week. Holy moly that was sexy.”
I’m still too stunned at my stupidity to respond.
“Your line is off. Come freak out on the bench.” He thinks I’m frozen from the goal.
I shake my head, reel myself back into the present moment, slap on a cheeky and cocky smile before throwing a leg over the boards and sitting on the bench.
Coach comes up behind me. His hands on my shoulders giving him away. “Way to go, Carmichael.” He squeezes. “I’m proud of you.” We’re up four to one with two minutes left of regulation play. “You’re done for the game. Rest up.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
I look back out on the ice, find the section she’s sitting in, but I notice a gap. Sutton’s gone.