Chapter Sixteen #2
I’m so full of crap, but it’s game day, and I can push aside my personal shitshow for the time being.
“You ready to best your brother?”
I chuckle. “Always. We Kirkland’s are obsessively competitive. With everything.”
Berg smiles. “Toronto’s got a solid team this year. I think we’re in for a hell of a battle.”
“I’m here for it.”
The rest of the team file onto the bus for the short drive to the rink. The younger guys sit in the front, raucous as usual, and when I hear Finn’s laughter, I flinch.
Game face, don’t fail me now.
There’s a throng of media waiting for us when we arrive, double the number of reporters that show up when we play in New York.
No surprise, hockey’s a religion in this country.
Most of the guys keep walking, avoiding the mics but letting the photographers do their thing.
Our captain, of course, stops to offer pre-game thoughts, and when they spot me, I get several mics shoved in my face along with a barrage of questions.
“How’s New York treating you, Sel?”
“Are the fans supportive of your coming out? Are you still seeing Taylor Grimaldi?”
“What’s it like to be the face of queer rep in hockey? Have you faced backlash?”
Berg offers me a concerned look, but I shake my head and smile at the reporters.
“New York’s been amazing and so are the fans. When it comes to Taylor, I have nothing to say.”
Hugo will be pissed at the way I answered that one, but too fucking bad.
“Coming out has been a journey,” I add. “One that I’ll be experiencing for the rest of my life. It’s not without struggle, and online trolls, but overall, I’m doing good. Having a supportive team like the Rush has helped tremendously. That’s all I’m going to say about that for now.”
I answer questions about tonight’s game and what’s it’s like to face off against my brother, and once that’s done, Berg and I head off for the locker room.
“You handled that well,” Captain comments.
I shrug. “I did alright. Better than my interviews as a rookie.”
“Bad?”
“Embarrassing,” I admit. “I said ‘fuck’ every second word and most of them had to be cut.”
Berg chuckles as we step inside. I forget about my personal life, interview questions, and media expectations. My one and only focus is getting my body and mind prepped.
Once everyone’s geared, we line up. The arena lights dim for introductions, the crowd roaring as the Toronto Sentinels take the ice.
The Rush follow, our white jerseys gleaming under the lights.
The air hums with heated tension as we warm up, and I watch Finn skate laps, testing his edges, no doubt trying to settle the nerves snapping under his skin.
Everyone’s amped up, me included. Across the ice, Karson’s chirping his teammates, grinning like he owns the place.
No surprise there. I don’t know if it’s the buzz about playing against Karson or the fact that Canadian fans are feral about hockey, but I’m feeding off the anticipation, ready to get this game going.
Once the national anthems are sung, it’s on.
From the first shift, the pace of the game is fast and faster.
The Sentinels forecheck hard, forcing turnovers, hammering at our defense.
Finn digs in, battling along the boards, taking hits, giving them back, and watching my back.
Every time he’s on the ice with me, I feel the pull between us, an awareness that’s so strong it intensifies my rhythm.
Midway through the first period, Toronto finds open ice.
Karson takes a feed from the corner, snaps a wrist shot high, glove side, and I witness the puck hitting the net with a resounding slap.
Fucking hell. The crowd explodes with cheers and hollers, but those of us on the ice shake our heads in disbelief.
Range and Laflore are in their usual spots on the bench, talking to the rest of the team, getting them ready for the line change.
Karson skates past them with a cheeky grin and a wave.
Makela hold up his glove in return, only, he’s not waving.
On the next shift, Berg hits it hard, challenging my brother. Captain carries the puck through the neutral zone, weaves past a defender, then threads a perfect pass to Makela, who buries it top shelf.
1–1.
Our bench erupts as the crowd sits quietly.
The second period opens with both teams trading chances.
The hits get heavier, the chirps louder.
Finn and I are paired on a defensive shift, trying to contain Karson’s line.
The puck cycles high, then low. I signal to Finn to watch his left, but he doesn’t catch it.
It’s only a heartbeat of confusion but Karson clocks it.
My brother cuts between us, steals the puck, and passes it to his winger, who slams it home. The Sentinels celebrate again.
“Fuck!”
Finn skates in front of me and there’s fury simmering in his eyes.
“That was my bad,” I pant. “I tried to—”
Finn shakes his head.
“That was a fucking mess,” Finn snaps. “We look like idiots.”
I know it’s just frustration riding him, but the comment stings.
When our shift is done, the bench is silent, except for Range, who barks out orders. The next line jumps over the boards, and the game rolls on.
By the end of the period, Toronto leads 2–1.
Karson’s true to his Whiplash nickname, moving fast, pivoting, deke’ing.
He hits it so hard I’m surprised the ice doesn’t crack underneath him.
The fans eat it up, chanting his name. Meanwhile, I’m stuck on the bench, sweat dripping down my face, replaying my mistake.
I decide to make another one by glancing at my defensive partner.
Finn stares straight ahead, his jaw clenched.
I try to ignore his earlier words, but it’s useless.
The battle continues in the third period, but no one scores. The final buzzer roars and that’s it, we lose by one freaking goal. A goal that I could’ve prevented. I watch my brother and his teammates celebrate Toronto’s win. Like always, I’m happy for him, but I’m pissed off at myself.
Cooling down, I look around for Finn, but he’s already out of sight. I thought distance between us was a good thing, but it feels I’ve lost a lot more than a game.