24. Jamie
Jamie
The puck dies behind our net with eighteen seconds left in the third period and the score’s tied at three.
Sebastian leaves it for me, already shouting something I can’t hear over the roar inside the arena.
I circle behind the crease and collect it on my forehand, lifting my head as the Portland Kodiaks spread across the neutral zone.
They’ve spent the entire night clogging lanes, finishing every check, and making us fight for every inch of ice.
My legs are heavy, my shoulder is screaming, and there’s barely enough time left to capitalize on anything, but I try anyway.
I’ve played like shit all night, well, what I would consider shit and I want us to win.
Their first forechecker cuts toward me before I clear the goal line.
I shift the puck to my backhand and lean away from his stick, slipping past him close enough to feel his glove scrape across my hip.
Devan drives up the middle ahead of me, forcing the second forward to choose between closing on me and letting two hundred and thirty pounds of determined enforcer barrel into open ice untouched.
He chooses Devan and I smile, good man.
I push harder, crossing our blue line with the puck nestled against my blade. The crowd rises with me, the sound building as the clock bleeds into single digits. Portland’s defense backs toward its own zone, one man tracking Tor on my right while the other squares himself to me.
Eight seconds.
I cross center ice and cut left. A stick reaches across my body, catching the lower edge of my glove before I wrench free.
Devan collides with his man along the boards, keeping him occupied without giving the officials enough to call.
Tor enters the zone beside me, and I send the puck across before the defenseman can close the gap.
Six seconds.
Tor receives it cleanly near the right circle.
The nearest Kodiak turns toward him, and I keep moving, cutting behind the defender instead of slowing down.
My lungs burn and my thighs feel carved from concrete.
Every instinct tells me the lane is too narrow and the clock is too far gone.
Tor has other plans, he snaps the puck back through the space between two sticks.
I catch it on my forehand as a defenseman crashes into my side. His shoulder drives beneath mine and knocks me off balance, but I keep the puck long enough to drag it around his skate. I have one opening, half a stride, and one more shot before this thing goes to overtime.
I release it, the puck leaves my blade as I start going down, rising above the goalie’s blocker and catching the inside of the far post before snapping into the net.
The red light flares and the goal horn erupts. The entire Climate Pledge Arena loses its collective mind.
I hit the ice hard enough to jar my teeth, but I barely register it before Devan crashes down on top of me, yelling directly into my ear. Tor follows, then Ridley and Tobias, and suddenly I am buried beneath gloves, sticks, and grown men who have apparently forgotten how much each of us weighs.
“Get off me,” I shout, laughing despite the pressure crushing the air from my lungs.
“Game-winner, Maxwell!” Devan bellows, grinding his glove over the top of my helmet. “That’s my fucking boy.”
“Your boy is suffocating,” I manage with a grunt as they all pull off me.
Tor grabs the back of Devan’s jersey and hauls him away far enough for me to breathe. “Let him up before you injure the man who just saved us from overtime.”
The scoreboard shows 1.4 seconds left of game play. One second and change between us and the ugliest win we have scraped together all season.
My teammates pull me upright, thumping my helmet and shoulders as we skate toward the bench. The arena is shaking beneath my blades. Fans are on their feet in every section, waving towels, pounding the glass, and screaming loud enough that the sound becomes something physical against my chest.
The officials force us back to center ice for the final faceoff. Portland barely gets a stick on the puck before the horn sounds, sealing the win and sending another wave of noise through the building.
We salute the crowd before heading toward the tunnel.
Tor raises his stick first, followed by Ridley, and the cheering climbs again for two of the most recognizable names in Seattle hockey.
Devan gets his own roar when he lifts both arms and beats one gloved hand against the Vipers crest on his chest.
Then I spot all the signs with my name and number on them. There are more of them than there used to be now.
Maxwell jerseys hang from the shoulders of grown men, women, and children scattered throughout the stands.
A kid pressed against the glass waves both hands when he catches me looking, his number seventeen sleeves hanging several inches past his fingertips.
A woman behind him holds up a sign with my name painted across it in blue and green.
Rainbow flags fly several rows back, some small enough to fit into a child’s fist and others stretched between groups of fans who are still chanting for us.
For me. It seems crazy how much the summer changed the way people see me.
They know more about me now than they ever have, and somehow the world didn’t end.
The fans didn’t turn away. My teammates don’t treat me differently because of it.
I gained support from people who’d never noticed me before and messages from kids who told me seeing someone like them on the ice made them feel as though there might be a place for them here too.
The entire Vipers team is an inspiration and I feel like I’m making a big difference in the limelight right along with them.
I lift my stick and give the crowd the smile they deserve. It’s not entirely false. We won, I scored, and thousands of people are celebrating something I helped create.
The happiness simply can’t reach every part of me tonight. Honestly, half of me was elsewhere tonight, hence my lackluster performance. I skate down the tunnel with my teammates, forcing myself to stay inside the moment while the ache I have been carrying for four months follows close behind.
The corridor outside the dressing room is packed with reporters, camera operators, arena staff, and security.
Voices rise from every direction as soon as we appear.
Questions about the goal, the hit in the second period, and the upcoming road trip blend into one wall of noise while the team’s media staff keeps us moving.
I duck my head and follow Tor through the crowd, one hand wrapped around my stick and the other tugging my helmet free.
Camera lights flash against the concrete walls.
Microphones reach over shoulders. Someone calls my name twice, but I keep walking until the dressing-room door closes behind us and cuts the noise in half.
The room erupts all over again.
Devan turns the speakers up so Jay Z’s Show Me What You Got blasts through the stalls at a volume that makes the metal lockers vibrate, then begins shaking his ass through the locker room, shedding his kit as he goes with theatrical flair.
Ridley throws a towel at his head, which Devan catches without missing a beat in his victory dance.
Tor tells everyone to calm down long enough for Coach Lennox to speak, his captain’s voice cutting through the mayhem with authority.
Devan pouts dramatically but turns the music down to a level that won’t blow out eardrums.
Coach steps into the middle of the room, his presence immediately commanding attention despite his modest stature. He looks around at all of us with that expression we’ve come to know well, part pride, part exasperation, wholly honest and shakes his head slowly. “That was ugly.”
A chorus of laughter answers him, the sound bouncing off concrete walls and metal stalls. Someone wolf-whistles. Another voice calls out, “Ugly wins still count, Coach!”
“It was also two points,” he continues, allowing himself the smallest smile. “Enjoy it tonight. Tomorrow, we fix everything that nearly cost us those two points.” His gaze sweeps the room methodically, taking inventory of faces, checking for injuries, reading the room.
His eyes land briefly on me, and I feel the weight of his assessment. “Good finish, Maxwell.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, lifting my head in acknowledgment while trying not to think about how many scoring chances I missed before that final goal.
“As you were, Scott,” he says as he nods toward the door and leaves us to it, his departure signaling the official end of his involvement in tonight’s celebration.
The music is turned up once more and my teammates surge back into celebration while I lower myself onto the bench in front of my stall.
The familiar routine of post-game wind-down begins around me, cutting tape away from shin guards, skates being unlaced with relief, the gradual transformation from hockey players back to regular men.
Adrenaline still hums through my body like electricity in my veins, but exhaustion is already moving in behind it, creeping up from my bones.
My shoulder pulses where the defenseman caught me during the final play, a reminder that will bloom into a proper bruise by morning.
Everything hurts in that specific way that comes after sixty minutes of controlled violence, and all I can think about is how quickly I can shower, get dressed, get home, and call Blue.
He has an early rehearsal tomorrow. I know because I study his schedule religiously, every call time, every interview, every flight, and every narrow window when we might be able to talk without one of us fighting sleep.