Chapter 34 Rodriguez #2
I tap my stick in acknowledgment and skate back to the bench, legs feeling like they could go for days.
Barrett meets me with a rare smile. “Hell of a game, Rodriguez.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“You got more in the tank?”
Do I? My legs feel perfect. My lungs are clear. The puck’s finding me like we’re glued to each other.
“Yeah, Coach. I got more.”
“Good. Because they’re going to start keying on you even harder now. Use it. Draw them to you and find the open man.”
“Yes, Coach.”
But I’m not thinking about finding the open man. I’m thinking about finding the back of the net again. And again.
I glance at the clock. Still three minutes left in the second period. The whole third period after that.
Plenty of time.
I look up at the family section again. Juliette’s sitting now, talking to Goldie, but I can see the way she keeps fidgeting, the way her leg is bouncing, the way she won’t stop glancing at me.
She’s thinking about it. About three. About whether I’ll get four.
I’m definitely getting four.
The second period ends 3-1. We head to the locker room and the energy is electric. Everyone’s hyped, the win feeling close enough to taste. Guys are laughing, chirping each other, the usual chaos when things are going our way.
“Rodriguez is putting on a fucking clinic out there,” Brody announces to the room, slapping my shoulder.
“Just seeing the ice well tonight.”
“Seeing it well? You’re fucking clairvoyant.” Dex collapses on the bench next to me. “What’re you at, seventeen minutes of ice time? Three goals? Coach is gonna ride you all third period.”
“Good. I’m not tired.”
“You should be. You’ve been flying around out there like someone lit your ass on fire.”
“Maybe someone did,” Anderson says with a knowing look.
“Maybe someone promised him something,” Brody adds. “Rodriguez, what’d you tell your girl? New car if you score four?”
“Maybe a vacation,” Almardon suggests. “Five goals gets her Paris?”
“Diamond earrings,” Dex decides. “Has to be jewelry.”
I just shrug and focus on hydrating, on stretching out my legs, on anything to keep my mind busy. Anything to keep from thinking about her face after that third goal, the way she sat down like her knees gave out.
Barrett comes in and goes through adjustments for the third period. Calgary’s going to push hard. They’ll pull their goalie early if they have to. We need to stay disciplined, can’t give them any momentum.
“Rodriguez,” he says, looking right at me. “Draw defenders and feed your linemates.”
Feeding linemates is the last thing on my mind. There’s one word playing on repeat like a drumbeat in my head. Four. Four. Four.
About what that number means.
We head back out for the third period.
Calgary comes out like their hair’s on fire. They score two minutes in on a scramble in front, our defense losing their man for half a second. 3-2 now and their crowd comes alive.
Their bench is fired up, pounding the boards, their coach actually showing emotion for once.
Eight minutes into the third, we catch a break. Calgary takes a penalty for hooking Brody in the neutral zone. Barrett puts me out with the first unit. He wants us to ice this game, wants yes another goal.
The puck drops. We win the draw clean and work it back to our defenseman at the point. He slides it across to Dex, who’s got time and space.
Their penalty kill is scrambling, trying to adjust to our formation.
Dex looks for me. I’m camped at the side of the net with their defenseman trying to box me out, but he’s on the wrong side, giving me position.
Dex threads a pass through traffic—between two defenders and just behind their forward’s stick. The puck arrives on my tape like it was meant to be there.
I redirect it without even thinking, just a quick change of angle with my blade.
The puck hits my stick and deflects up. Over the goalie’s shoulder, under the crossbar, in off the water bottle on top of the net.
Four goals.
The celebration is different this time. Bigger, louder, more disbelieving. Because everyone’s starting to realize what’s happening. Four goals in one game from a single player doesn’t happen often.
I skate to the family section but this time I don’t point or blow a kiss. I just look at her and hold her gaze for three long seconds.
She knows.
When I get back to the bench, the guys are losing their minds.
“FOUR GOALS!” Brody’s screaming. “RODRIGUEZ WITH FOUR!”
“When’s the last time someone scored four in a game?” Anderson asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dex says, grinning at me. “Our boy’s making history tonight.”
Almardon leans over from two spots down and taps my helmet. “One more. Get five.”
Five.
The word hangs in the air like a challenge.
Nobody’s scored five goals in a game in years. It’s one of those stats they bring up occasionally, one of those occasionally rare things that seems a little out of reach in the modern NHL where goaltending is too good and defense is too structured.
But right now? Tonight?
It doesn’t feel out of reach. It feels possible.
I look at the clock. Ten minutes left.
If Calgary pulls their goalie late, if I can get one more clean look...
I could make history.
And give Juliette the night of her life. Or possibly end her life. One of the two.
The thought makes me laugh despite the pressure suddenly sitting on my chest, despite everything.
Dex looks over. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just thinking I really want to score again.”
“Then let’s get you the puck.”
The final ten minutes feel like an hour. Calgary’s pressing hard, throwing everything forward. They pull their goalie with three minutes left, down by two.
Barrett taps my shoulder. “Rodriguez. Out there.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, mostly from the anticipation of it all.
“Protect the lead,” Barrett says. “But if you get a chance at the empty net, take it.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
The faceoff’s in our zone. Calgary wins it and immediately sets up, six attackers cycling the puck, probing for an opening. Luca makes a save and the puck slides to the corner.
Brody gets there first, absorbing a hit to chip it along the boards to Dex.
Dex looks up. Sees me at center ice. Sees the empty net at the other end of the rink.
Time slows down. I can hear individual voices in the crowd, can feel every scratch on the ice under my skates.
He makes the pass.
The puck hits my stick at the red line then it’s just me and 100 feet of open ice and an empty net that looks as big as a garage door.
I could dump it in easy. Just flip it down there and let physics do the work.
But that’s not how you score your fifth goal. That’s not how you make history.
I skate in closer, building speed, and snap a wrist shot from their blue line.
The puck slides across the ice, straight and true. Their players on the bench can only watch. Their fans groan in unison.
The puck crosses the goal line and hits the back of the net with a satisfying thunk.
Five goals.
The arena erupts. Even the Calgary fans are on their feet because they just witnessed history, even if it’s against their team. Our bench empties onto the ice. My teammates mob me at center ice, a tangle of bodies and sticks and gloves pounding my helmet.
“FIVE GOALS!” someone’s screaming in my ear. “FIVE FUCKING GOALS!”
“Rodriguez just made history!”
“Holy shit, man! Holy shit!”
I’m laughing and can’t stop laughing because this is insane, this is impossible, this doesn’t happen in real life.
But it just did.
Through the chaos of my teammates piling on me, I find her in the stands.
She’s standing with both hands pressed to her mouth, staring at me with eyes so wide I can see the white all around. The people around her are going crazy but she’s perfectly still, like she’s been frozen.
Five.
The number hangs between us even though we’re a hundred feet apart. A promise. A threat. A challenge.
Five goals.
Her face goes white. Then red. Then she sits down very suddenly and starts laughing, shaking her head like she can’t believe this is her life.
She mouths something that’s definitely “you’re insane” or maybe “I’m going to fucking kill you” it’s hard to tell from this distance.
I just grin and let my teammates drag me back toward the bench.
We still have to play out the final two minutes. Calgary doesn’t score. The buzzer sounds.
Final score: 5-2.
Historic.
The media’s going to have a field day with this. But right now, all I can think about is getting through the post-game circus so I can get back to the hotel.
So I can deliver on my promise.
All five of them.
The locker room is absolute chaos. Media everywhere—more than I’ve ever seen for a regular season road game. Cameras and microphones and reporters climbing over each other to get closer.
I just scored five goals in a single NHL game. It’s happened maybe a handful times in the last twenty years. Which means everyone wants everything—every detail, every thought, every feeling.
“Rodriguez, how does it feel to make history tonight?”
I’m still in my gear, sweat dripping down my back, trying to form coherent thoughts while my brain keeps circling back to Juliette. To what’s waiting for me.
“It feels incredible. Unbelievable. The puck was just finding me tonight and my linemates were putting me in great positions.”
“Five goals on seven shots. That’s a seventy-one percent shooting percentage. Did you feel unstoppable out there?”
“I wouldn’t say unstoppable. Just one of those nights where everything was clicking. The game slowed down and I could see plays developing before they happened.”
“What was going through your head on that empty netter?”
That my girlfriend is probably googling whether someone can die from too many orgasms.
“Just wanted to ice the game. Get the win. That’s always the most important thing.”
“You were pointing to someone in the stands after each goal. Want to tell us about that?”
My face heats. “Just acknowledging the fans who traveled to support us.”