Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
Ryan
Unfortunately, Ander’s declaration was right. Not only did we lose game one after Connor scored a game-winning goal in the third period, we also lost game two in a complete blowout. The Blizzards clobbered us with a final score of five to nothing.
On the plane back to St. Louis, we’re all exhausted, and no one is talking.
But no one is sleeping either. There isn’t a card game going on; no one has cracked open a beer.
Coach Chris and his assistants are sitting up front and the rest of us are sprawled out in our seats either staring at our phones, or out the airplane’s windows into the dark of the night.
At least I have Brandon here with me. He’s leaning against me, his body heavy against my side.
The only person who seems to be taking these two losses harder than him is Ivanov.
He’s all the way at the back of the team plane, sitting with his arms crossed, grumbling to himself.
One of us is going to have to go back there at some point to calm him down and get him out of his head.
Personally, I nominate Danton for that job. I have enough on my plate with Brandon.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” I ask him.
“Not really.” He sighs. “I wouldn’t be able to pay attention to it anyways.”
“It’s only two games,” I tell him. “We’re still in this. And we all knew it was going to be hard.” I bump him with my shoulder. “Brush it off. No one is expecting you to score all the goals.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s just… the story, two brothers pitted against each other. Me scoring is what everybody wants.”
A small laugh escapes me. “That may be so,” I say. “But do you honestly think after all this is said and done, years from now, anyone is going to remember how many goals you scored against him the last few days? There will be far too many for them to keep track.”
“Maybe,” he says, laughing.
I look down at him and he’s looking up at me from where his head is resting on my shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing great.”
Brandon
The first words out of my mother’s mouth when I open the door to Ryan’s—no, our—apartment are, “You played so well. Your father and I are so proud of you.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek, then immediately turns her attention to Ryan.
She wraps him in a hug. “You too, dear. Just the best two players on the ice.”
“You don’t gotta lie to the boys,” my dad says as he follows after her. He looks back and forth between the both of us. “You both played well, though. You should be proud of that.”
“We will be if we can get a win back,” I say. “The last thing we want is to be swept.”
“We won’t be,” Ryan says. He presses his hand firmly against my lower back as he steps around me to make his way to the kitchen. “As soon as we get back into our own barn tomorrow with our own fans, we’ll get a boost.”
“I agree with that,” my dad says. “There is nothing like a home crowd to get a team’s juices flowing.”
“It’s hard to play in Buffalo,” my mother says, as if she’s done it.
“Even harder to play there when Gavin Marshal isn’t taking any penalties,” Ryan says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I thought he was proud of his title. King of penalty minutes, my ass.”
“He’s changed,” my mother says, looking pleased. It’s like he’s her kid too or something. But then I remember, my mom has gotten to know him over the years. And though he was never a billet or anything like that, it doesn’t change my parents’ desire to welcome all hockey players into their home.
“Tell that to the giant bruise on Brandon’s hip,” Ryan says as he pulls a tray of French toast from the oven. Vicky dropped it off earlier and he’s been keeping it warm along with bacon and scrambled eggs, waiting for my parents ever since.
“He got you good, huh, son,” my dad says.
“I’ve had worse.”
“Liar.” Ryan laughs. He walks past me with the French toast in his hands and takes it to our seldom-used dining room table. He comes back and grabs the rest of the food. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s eat.”
We follow him and before I get a chance to take a seat, I notice that some décor has been added.
On the wall I’m facing, I see both mine and Ryan’s Mules jerseys hanging next to each other.
I then look over my shoulder. He’s done the same with our Hodags jerseys and beside them are my jersey from UDub and his junior team USA jersey from after he left Green Bay.
“How?” I ask, stunned. I’ve been with him every day for months now. It’s impossible. But yet here it is. He’s placed me up on his walls like I’ve always been here.
He smiles shyly at me. “I might have gotten some help,” he says and his eyes flit to my mother. “She sent me your old jerseys and Vicky came by the place and hung them for me yesterday.”
I laugh around a lump in my throat. “We really need to get her more than a Christmas card this year.”
“If we win this thing, I’m insisting she gets her own championship ring.” He slings his arm around me and pulls me into his side. With my parents watching, he kisses the side of my head, then uses his free hand to smooth my hair behind my ear. “Now, who else is hungry?”
Clearly all of us as we sit to enjoy a feast together the night before what will be one of the most important games of my life.
Ryan
This game is much better. Hearing the sound of our home crowd cheering and singing along to our goal song after my shot flew right past Ander and into the net is electric.
While the stadium celebrates, I skate down the line of our bench and bump fists with my teammates while they bang their sticks against the boards.
“That’s it!” Coach Chris says. “That’s how we get it done. Roysy! You’re in. Be ready. They’re gonna come out with everything they’ve got.”
“Yes, Coach,” Roysy says as he and his line swing themselves over the boards to take the next face off.
Brandon, O’Shea, and I make our way back onto the bench and take our seats. Right now is the perfect time for Roysy and his line to be out there. This game is starting to get chippy. The Blizzards, for the first time in this series, are on their heels. A position they are bound to hate.
When the puck drops, Roysy loses the face off. No surprise there. But he’s not out there to win the draw. He’s out there to… Slam! Connor Kennedy goes sprawling on the ice after taking a massive hit from Roysy.
Roysy is immediately pushed, and when he turns around to see who it is, he’s faced with Gavin’s intimidating bulk. But Roysy doesn’t care. He drops his stick and flicks his gloves off in one go, then unsnaps his helmet and throws it to the ground right in front of our bench.
Gavin does the same, then grabs Roysy by the collar of his jersey, pulling him closer. “Don’t you ever fucking touch him again.”
“Finally got some fight in you, eh?” Roysy taunts as he swings and connects with Gavin’s shoulder. All of us on the bench start banging our sticks against the boards to cheer him on.
Gavin doesn’t even flinch. He just grins menacingly and stares at Roysy. “You sure you want this?”
“Quit being polite like your boyfriend and hit me, fucking coward!” Roysy yells, swinging again.
“If you say so,” Gavin says and levels Roysy with an uppercut.
Our entire bench collectively winces.
I’ll give him credit. Roysy manages to stay on his feet. But luckily for him, the refs have arrived to break up the fight. Each of them is grabbed around the waist by a ref and skated away to the penalty boxes.
Once they have them separated, the main ref makes his way to center ice.
The crowd goes silent for the call. “Number forty-eight for the St. Louis Mules, and number two for the Buffalo Blizzards…” The ref pauses and makes two fists in front of his chest. He shakes them. “Five minutes each. For fighting.”
The crowd erupts into cheers as their fight is replayed in slow motion on the jumbotron.
“Alright!” Coach Chris says. “It’s not a power play, but we got Marshal off the ice. That should give us some room.” He taps me on the shoulder. “Go make the most of it.”
Brandon
Getting Gavin off the ice for five minutes and making us play four on four definitely did open up more room for us to move the puck, but that goes both ways. Even without his bodyguard out here, Connor is near impossible to play against.
He’s incredibly fast, and the way he turns and spins around people is dizzying. And I haven’t even mentioned his stick handling yet which puts everyone in the league to shame. His hands are smooth and quick, the definition of silky.
Ironic considering that’s what Ander has always said about me. But compared to Connor, I may as well be playing junior hockey back in Green Bay.
He intercepts the puck again and takes off towards our net. I can hear Gavin cheering him on from inside the penalty box. But as I chase after Connor, I get a glimpse of Ivanov. He’s a brick wall right now in front of our net.
I’m nearly caught up to Connor when he takes his shot.
Ivanov blocks it with his left leg. It rebounds off of him to the right and I grab it with my stick. Now it’s my turn to go coast to coast and skate down to the Blizzards’ end.
Ryan and O’Shea do a good job of splitting the Blizzards’ defense. And Clemmers has the ice cleared for me. I skate with abandon, not caring if I crash into Ander and the net. This goal, no matter what, is going in.
Ander is poised, ready to stop my shot. I flick it, he hits it, but the puck lands right in front of me again and this time I’m able to push it past him with the blade of my stick. I slide it underneath his leg and go down on my ass in the process.
He falls directly on top of me, but out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the refs waving off the goal before the horn blares.
“Nice try, baby brother,” Ander says as he rises. Looking cocky, he brushes himself off.
I stare him down. There’s no way Coach Chris isn’t going to challenge that call.