Chapter 24
TRICK
Skating in a wide arcing circle around the rink as the crowd goes wild, the spot light chases me. The announcer’s voice blasts through the Whit’s sound system.
“Let’s hear it for the Wildcat’s star center, Hockey East’s leading scorer, P a t r i i i c k Jennings!.”
I swing back around to take my place on the blue line where my teammates bang their sticks on the ice.
I glance up in the stands to a few rows behind the penalty box to find Fifi and her friends sitting.
I got them special tickets, far away from the seats for my family.
Only Mom, Kathleen and Rory are here tonight.
Dad had a game with Daniel and the Rye High team. My belly clenches and I force Dad and everyone else from taking up my head space as the crowd settles down for the national anthem.
This is where I focus, concentrating on the flag and the championship banners hanging in the rafters, channeling the winning vibe, feeling the ice under my blades and the cold air invading my lungs, clearing my head, heightening my senses until every sensory input is extra vivid.
My mission tonight is crystal clear. I will be a scoring machine and my team will win.
There were rumbles in the locker room that NHL scouts are in the building for the game. The big showing of sports media gives the rumor credibility.
I use that possibility. right now as the anthem ends and the applause winds down. to ratchet up my energy and rev my skating engine.
The starting line-up takes their place around me at center ice for the opening face-off. Ignoring everything but the sliver of space above the ice where the puck will drop, I stand perfectly still and wait..
Like he’s moving in slow motion, the ref drops the puck and I snatch it from the air a fraction before it lands, sending it backwards to Van.
The game is on.
Starting the third period, the score is 3-3 and I have two of our goals. Van has the third.
Huddled at the bench, Zabra’s stares us down, his face a map of misery. “We need this fucking win. I don’t care who scores, but we need a fucking score.” He turns his hot glare on me as he wipes spittle from his mouth with a hanky.
“You, hot shot. You say you’re a hat trick scorer, well this is your chance to prove it. And I don’t care how you fucking do it, just do it.”
“Yes, sir.” Our eyes connect and for a beat, we understand each other, and take the same side, the one that wants to win this game, the one that cares about nothing else but winning right now.
Sully shouts, “One, two, three—”
Then as we raise our gloved hands in the air, we join him and shout in unison, “Go Wildcats.”
Skating to center ice for the third period face-off feels different. I feel empowered like never before with my former enemy Coach Zabra now on my side.
Feeling the full will of Coach and the entire team behind me, l scoring a third goal is inevitable. I’ll get a fucking hat trick and we’ll win this fucking game.
I’m dripping with sweat as the team manager squirts water at my face the instant I come off the ice. I don’t get far because there’s a massive crowd of players and media clogging the tunnel and blocking he way to the locker room.
The equipment manager grins at me. “Looks like we’re having an impromptu press conference here on the rubber.”
“Looks like you’re right.”
He takes my helmet, stick and gloves. “Great game, Trick.”
“Thanks.” I’m gassed and my voice is hoarse, so I grab a water bottle from him as I follow him for a few steps into an opening the crowd.
The sports anchor for the local TV station, who’s now familiar to me, zeros in with his mic raised in front of me before anyone else has a chance. His cameraman hovers close by and is ready to flash on the red light.
“They’re calling you Hat Trick Patrick. What do you think of that?” He’s friendly and familiar, but the camera’s red light turns on and I hear Coach’s command in my head not to steal the show.
But I am who I am.
“It depends who they are, but it has a ring.”
“They are everyone—your fans and now the media. I saw a post on Instagram already this afternoon. Someone named Pammy. A friend of yours?”
I stare at the camera and then at him, clamping my mouth shut, which he understands without me saying a word. It means he’s not getting an answer to personal questions on camera.
He recovers quickly, ready with another question.
“Run me through your third goal, arguably the most spectacular of the three.”
Glad to be talking hockey, I grin and answer him.
“I knew number nine was going to pass it off to his favorite winger, so I flew in and intercepted it, and then I kept going, making sure he had no chance to catch me. After that it was a matter of deking the goalie, then lifting the puck to the corner when I got close.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Nothing about this game is easy, but I don’t mind entertaining the crowd with a Trick shot.” I wink at the camera.
He laughs and thanks me.
“Thank you,” I say. “Always a fun time.” I leave it up to him to interpret my level of sarcasm.
I’m about to duck into the locker room when Coach Winnick tracks me down.
“Trick, there’s someone here you might want to meet.” He nods at the man behind him and then moves on.
“Hello, Trick. Great game. I’m Dart Miller, agent with the Jett Agency. Have a minute to talk?”
My adrenaline spikes, but I hold a lid on it. “For you, sure. Say hello to Jett for me.”
He chuckles. “That’s what we like about you. You have personality.”
“You sure it’s not my hockey playing that impresses you?”
“That’s a given. But when we’re talking about regional NIL deals, we like to find players with star power on and off the field—or in your case, the ice.”
NIL deals? I nod but don’t say more in spite of my desperate curiosity. It’s his show.
“We think we can arrange a deal for you with Red Bullet, the energy drink. I’d like to send you a copy of the contract so you can look it over and then maybe arrange a meeting.”
My first instinct is to ask how much, but I squelch that and skip to the second burning question on my mind. “Don’t you need to wait for the draft to see if I make it to the pros?”
He laughs. “You’re joking, right? You’re pretty high up in the rankings, and I’d be the first to fall over if you don’t get snatched up by round three, four at the latest. You’ve been invited to the draft combine, right?”
If I have, I must have missed it, but I give him a noncommittal shrug. “Send the contract. I’ll take a look.”
“Good. It could be worth up to 50k if you build up your social media following—which from what I’ve seen, won’t be hard to do.”
I nod, not bothering to hold back my grin. I owe Kathleen and Pammy. With an extra fifty-k, I’d have some breathing room with my finances and won’t need to depend on my family. At least I wouldn’t need to depend on living with them or with Pammy.
In fact, if I could manage it, I’d get my own place and maybe talk Fifi into visiting on a regular basis. Or ask her to move in.
Shit. I must be out of my mind. I shake Dart’s outstretched hand and hurry to the locker room before I explode. I need to tell Fifi about this. In person.
Which means I’ll have to get her alone at the Winter Snow Ball.