36. Brynn
brYNN
“Heeeeeey!” I said as I picked up the video call from Dani. “I don’t have long, the second period is about to start.”
Dani scoffed. “I don’t know why some of those stadium seats aren’t filled. The snapshots of the game you sent me are pretty good!”
I shrugged. “Ehhh, not as good as it could have been. I have a feeling Colton’s giving them a piece of his mind back there in the locker room.”
“Well, it looked good from where I’m standing.”
“States away when you should be here?”
She snickered and shot me that award-winning smile of hers. “When’s the second period?”
I looked at the countdown clock. “Here in a few seconds. Want to watch the second period like this? Or do you want me to keep sending you pictures and stuff?”
“Pictures for now, but hit me up when it’s the last period. I may be wrapped up with my blanket then.”
I paused. “You’re crocheting again? Since when?”
But the buzzer went off, signaling for the teams to gather once more, and I sighed. “Hold that thought, I’ll call you back.”
“Looking forward to the pictures!”
I quickly hung up the video call, but I didn’t pocket my phone.
Instead, I pulled up the video record screen and decided to video the entire second period for her.
Dani didn’t go anywhere and do very much.
For a woman who had the kind of aspirations she did in college, she was a homebody.
An introvert. I mean, you’d never know it while she was out in public.
She was as charismatic as they came. But if you drained her of energy?
Dani was the kind of person that needed hours of alone time and a strict routine in order to help even herself out a bit.
At least, that’s what she called it.
Evening out.
“Come ooooon!” I roared as the teams took to the ice once more. “Let’s get this party started!”
Watching Rhett zip around with that massive Minnesota Daredevil didn’t shock me.
I mean, I wasn’t a hockey professional or anything, but it didn’t take a professional to clock the fact that the behemoth Minnesota man on the ice was strictly there to keep Jett locked up.
On one hand, that was a good thing. It meant the other team recognized his contributions to ours.
But Jesus, it had to be frustrating.
Every time Jett went to make a shot, that man was there, blocking it.
Doing the goalie’s job. Snaking himself right in the middle.
And Rhett, bless his soul, did everything he could to get around it.
They ran play after play, with Colton snatching boys off the ice and switching them out on a dime just to try and get a once-over on the Minnesotan team that invaded our city for the evening.
But when that motherfucker rolled up on Jett and damn near tripped him in the middle of a well-tuned snipe, I leapt to my feet.
“Don’t do it, Jett!” I bellowed.
Too late.
The instant Jett ripped his gloves off, it was game on. Rhett zoomed over from the other side of the ice, his stick discarded as Jett got shoved into the protective barrier that kept the spectators safe from projectiles on the ice.
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
I raised my phone high to try and capture every second for Dani, but I didn’t pay attention to my phone.
Rhett ripped that fucker off Jett and slammed him into the plastic shielding, earning a hearty cheer from the audience.
Refs of all shapes and sizes skated out onto the ice.
I’d never seen so many of them at once out there before.
Granted, not all of them were in uniform because not all of them worked the game, but to watch them all stumble and stutter over the ice just to get to the growing pile of men beating on one another?
It truly was a sight to behold.
Whistles were blown and game clocks stopped.
What started out as a fight turned into team on team, and before I knew it, I watched as the ref dragged Jett toward the penalty box.
He slammed that man into the small enclosure, with Jett tripping over himself on his skates.
And as he slammed himself down into the seat, I held my breath.
The ref came over the intercom and announced, “Number 12, Vipers. Penalty box for unsportsmanlike conduct. Minor penalty. Two minutes.”
The crowd booed before the ref continued. “Number 24, Daredevils. Penalty box for cross-checking, holding, and unsportsmanlike conduct. Double-minor penalty. Four minutes.”
I gasped and looked at the clock. Holy shit, the second period only had two and a half more minutes in it. Which meant we’d get Jett back for the last thirty, but they’d have to keep that mammoth of theirs caged up until the last period.
I let out a roar as the game commenced once more.
The crowd was on their feet for the rest of the period.
While no one scored, the game was still tied, and I flopped down into my seat as the teams vacated the ice for their last break of the game.
I stopped my video and emailed it to Dani, since it was the only way I could think of to get a video that long to her.
I kicked back and peered up into my mother’s V.I.P. booth.
I mean, I couldn’t see her. No one could see into those booths from the stadium.
Mom had the glass of the rooms tinted some time ago, back when we realized that some people…
couldn’t be trusted with clear windows overlooking a stadium.
Especially if they booked the V.I.P. room with a significant other.
I’ll let your imagination run wild with that one.
Still, I hoped she enjoyed the game. I waved up there, just in case she was looking at me, and then my attention returned to the countdown clock.
Fifteen minutes and counting. I watched our new maintenance man, Mr. Jimbo, putz out on his Zamboni, and the crowd went wild, cheering him on like the drunk fuckers they were as he slowly inched his way across the ice.
Mr. Jimbo took his hat off his head and spun it around in the air, sending the crowd absolutely wild.
It made me laugh, and for the first time in a while, I hadn’t thought about my father during a hockey game.
Well, much, anyway.
But all too soon, the break was over, and the teams took their places back on the ice for the final period. Jett wiggled around, happy to be out of his cage, while number 24 still had another minute and a half or whatever to go in his own penalty box.
I pulled my phone out and readied myself for another video. “All right, Jett. If you’re gonna pull moves, now’s your chance.”
The whistle blew, the puck dropped, and the entire stadium erupted into cheers.
Rhett and Jett bobbed and weaved along the ice, passing the puck back and forth while the rest of the team kept the Minnesotans occupied.
They threw a couple of men at them, but Rhett was quick on his feet, spinning around and passing the puck to Jett just so he could dodge.
My jaw dropped open as they grew closer to the opposing team’s net.
Closer than they’d been the entire fucking game.
We were down by one, not a goal on the board, and I watched, almost in slow motion, as Jett snapped his stick back.
And for the smallest of moments, the only thing heard was the slap of his stick against the rubber puck.
The sound was deafening. The puck clinked against the metal of the goal, tripping the light on the back, and our team’s colors flashed all about.
Long gone was the thought of my phone in my hand.
Long gone was the want to get Dani some good fucking videos to show her just what she missed.
And as the well-used Jumbotron illuminated with Jett and Rhett’s faces, the word “GOAL” flashed in red, orange, and white on the screens.
I cupped my hands over my mouth and whooped as hard as I fucking could.
With forty-five seconds to go with that massive man in the penalty box, the boys quickly got to work.
I got the video for Dani going again, holding it with both hands as I tried to find the best spot to record.
Many people stood up now, biting their nails and chewing on their lower lips as Rhett and Jett kicked it into gear.
The dynamic duo, they were called. Not very original, but it was true.
As long as the two of them could perform unhindered on the ice, they were unstoppable.
It shouldn’t have shocked me when Jett sank yet another goal from halfway across the fucking ice.
“Oh my God!” I shrieked as I bounced up and down. “Yes! Yes! Come on, guys! We can do iiiiiiit!”
I did my best to hold my phone up and cheer, but I knew it was going to be a shitty video. Oh, well. Maybe it would convince Dani to throw her schedule out the window for once so that she could come visit. But a buzzer sounded, indicating that number 24’s time in the penalty box was finally over.
We all settled back down into our seats, the entire stadium seeming to silently agree that the teams needed quiet. I never heard the stadium so eerily calm before. It was like we were afraid to breathe. Up by one, with over fifteen minutes still to go in the final period.
I winced as Moose took blow after blow. He wasn’t letting those goals pass him by, but Jesus, they ran him ragged.
I saw Colton scribbling furiously on his clipboard.
Every time I looked over at him, he was either barking, scribbling, or yanking someone off the ice just to insert someone else.
I knew enough to know that he took stock of his team.
Trying to figure out who was better under pressure and in what scenarios.
Frank got exchanged for Marcus, and then Marcus got pulled for Hawk.
Hawk got switched back out moments later for Frank again, and then I saw Colton do something I couldn’t understand.
I watched him pull Rhett off the ice before he shoved Breakpoint onto it.
“Booooooooooo!”
“Put him back! Put him back!”
“Stone! Stone! Stone! Stone!”
“Bring Stone back! Bring Stone back! Bring Stone back!”
I ground my teeth as I listened to the crowd question Colton’s motive. Granted, I wasn’t sure what he was doing, either, pulling our best center off the ice with only five minutes to go in the game. But we were still up by one, and we all had to trust that Colton knew what he was doing.
Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next, however.
The second Rhett got yanked off the ice, number 24, whose name I’d intentionally not get to know simply based on principle, seemed to back off Jett altogether.
And that’s when I saw Colton grin. Even from my seat in the stands, I knew he’d just figured it out.
That motherfucker didn’t hound Jett if Rhett wasn’t on the ice.
When Frank zoomed by, Colton ripped him off the ice long enough to say something to him before shoving him back out there.
Frank zoomed around, his focus on number 24 while that Minnesotan kept tracking Jett with his eyes.
While he wasn’t on Jett’s ass any longer, he didn’t take his sights off our sniper.
And something told me Frank was going to do something about it.
Around and around and around we went, with Moose catching every puck that came his way. Blades scored across the ice and the crowd would wind up to cheer before something happened, deflating all of them at once. Like letting out the air out of old-fashioned organ bellows.
Until finally, number 24 was distracted.
Immediately, and without Colton’s prompting, Frank zipped off the ice and Rhett was already moving before his skates hit the boards.
Jett kept pumping up the crowd, rushing around the opposing side of the ice while number 24 tracked him with his eyes.
The Daredevil’s coach yelled, but number 24 was much too focused.
The Daredevil’s coach banged his clipboard against the side railing, trying to get the man’s attention, but it was already too late.
The crowd leapt to their feet as Rhett retrieved control of the puck. I screamed at the top of my lungs as Jett shoved himself off the protective wall, moving faster than I’d ever seen him move. Had I not been paying attention, I wouldn’t have even seen it.
The give-and-go they pulled off.
It was like watching a dance. The two of them zoomed past one another, Rhett firing the puck to Jett in a single crisp motion — no wind-up, no telegraph, just the puck moving between them so fast it was barely visible.
Jett caught it in stride without breaking his line and kept going.
Number 24 bit hard on the fake, tracking Jett down the right side.
Rhett rushed down the other side of the ice, snapping his stick back, and slammed the puck right into the goal, just before the buzzer for the game went off.
The stadium fell silent. One could’ve heard a pin drop as we all watched the Jumbotron. We were up by one. Flags were called on the play. Refs skated over to the video booth, where they seemed to stand there for fucking hours, watching the replay over and over again.
I used to roll my eyes whenever Mom went on about the importance of the video review system and the money she’d sunk into it. But as we stood there, collectively holding our breaths, I’d never respected my mother’s decisions for this stadium so much in all my fucking life.
The mic for the ref crackled. He skated to the middle of the ice. Then he began his hand motions as the crowd erupted into cheers.
“The play is good. Legal point for the Vipers.”
The Jumbotron ticked over the goal, leaving the final tally of the game 3 to 1, ours.
And as I stood there, gawking at the Jumbotron, the concrete stadium steps rumbled beneath my feet as the half-packed stadium burst forth with borderline maniacal cheers for our winning team.