Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Ryan
No one ever tells you what a grind the playoffs are. We’ve basically been put through a blender at this point. There’s a reason why the Stanley Cup is considered the hardest trophy in sports to win. Now, I truly understand why.
After winning game six at home in St. Louis, we’re back in Buffalo now for game seven. All the pressure I thought I was feeling before was nothing compared to the hum of nerves right now. Strangely, it’s the national anthem that is keeping me calm.
It’s funny. Being a professional athlete, I hear the national anthem practically every single day. Hell, some days I hear both ours and Canada’s. For the most part, it barely even registers to me anymore.
Except right now. Tonight, in Buffalo, the crowd is singing along.
Clapping and cheering when the Blizzards’ in-house singer hits the long high notes.
Like damn. It’s got me feeling a certain way.
Emotions, tensions, expectations, hopes, dreams, wants, and wishes are culminating at this moment.
This is it. This is game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals.
A moment that everyone on this ice has thought about since we were kids.
There isn’t a hockey player on the planet who hasn’t fantasized about playing in this game.
About being the one to net the game-winning goal.
Everyone in this barn, player or not, is ready to be a part of something truly special.
At the end of this game, one team is getting that cup.
One team is getting their names engraved in the sterling silver rings to be immortalized forever.
One team gets a parade, a celebration, a banner for the rafters, glory.
The other team will get nothing. The same as every other team in the league who didn’t make it to this moment.
As soon as the singer finishes, the arena erupts into applause while the players on both teams start tapping our sticks on the ice in front of us. Each tap feels like ticking away part of a countdown. Each tap brings us closer to the beginning of the end.
“Bring it in, boys!” Coach Chris yells from the bench.
I take a quick glance at the Blizzards’ bench on my way to ours.
They look calm and confident, which I suppose makes sense.
Everyone on that team except for Connor has been here before.
They won this last year. And as for Connor, why would he be nervous?
He’s Connor fucking Kennedy. He has no reason to ever be nervous on the ice, or off of it, now that he has Gavin watching his back instead of trying to crush it.
Which, speaking of…
“Listen up,” Coach Chris says. “The refs are going to put their whistles away for this. The last thing they want is for a penalty to be the deciding factor in tonight’s game.
So keep your heads on a swivel and know where Marshal is at all goddamn times.
No one is coming to save you. You will all have to keep an eye out for each other. Got it?”
“Got it, Coach!” we all say together.
“Good.” He nods his head. “Now, as for your other problem tonight. Keep the puck away from Kennedy. Don’t give him an inch to make a play.
Defense is the key to us winning tonight.
Don’t leave Ivanov alone out there to be shelled.
Put your bodies on the line. After tonight, you have the rest of summer to heal any wounds. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Coach!”
He smiles at us. “Now go have some fun! This is the game you’ve all been playing your whole lives for. Enjoy every second of it.”
Brandon
Coach said to enjoy every second of this, but right now, I’m not enjoying a damn thing.
“Holy shit!” Danton yells out behind me as I wipe my mouth. “He finally did it!”
“Yes,” Ivanov says. “In wrong trash can.”
“Fuck off,” I whine.
“Are you alright?” Ryan asks me. He places his hand on my shoulder then offers me a squirt of water from a nearby bottle.
I wipe my mouth again. “I’m good. Just had to let that one out, you know?”
He nods his head. “Oh, I know.” He holds his fingers up between us, bringing his first finger a mere millimeter from his thumb. “You’ve been this close to losing your lunch for dozens of games. Maybe now your nervous stomach will give you a rest.”
“I highly doubt that,” I say, then accept the water he’s offering. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of our trainers discreetly replacing the garbage can I just threw up into with a new one. He gives me a thumbs up when he walks away.
“Bouchard!” Coach Chris yells out.
I skate to him, and he silently slips me a piece of gum. I take it and pop it into my mouth. As I chew, he taps my helmet with his hand.
“Skate it off, son,” he says. “You’ll be fine once the puck drops.”
“Hey! Little brother!” The sound of Ander’s voice rings out behind me.
I turn around and see him standing at the very edge of the red line that runs through center ice. I skate to him, knowing full well that every camera in this place is going to be focused directly on us. Two brothers facing off in game seven.
Ander is wearing his usual goofy grin when I get to him. “Still get nervous, huh?”
I shrug. “Only a little bit.”
“Only a lot a bit,” Ryan says as he skates to a stop beside us. He stares Ander down. “But don’t think that makes him weak. We’re coming for you.”
Ander holds his hands up in defense. “I didn’t think you wouldn’t be.” He takes his glove off and holds out his hand to the both of us. “I just wanted to wish you both good luck tonight,” he says. “No matter how this goes, we’re still family. All of us. Alright?”
“Definitely,” I say and shake his hand. “Always family.”
“For sure,” Ryan says, grinning menacingly as he shakes Ander’s hand. “I expect to see you at our cup party.”
Ander raises his eyebrow as he lets go of Ryan’s hand. “That’s cute. How about a little wager?”
I hold up my hands. This can go in so many different directions and not one of them is good. “How about not.”
“No, no,” Ryan says, still grinning and nodding his head. “I like this idea. What are your terms, Bouchard?”
The smile on my brother’s face is unnerving. “The loser has to show up to the winner’s cup party in a bikini.”
“Fucking bet!” Ryan says and holds out his hand again.
“No fucking bet!” I say, as I skate in between them before they can shake on this ridiculous wager.
“Scared?” they both ask me in unison.
“Yes!” I exclaim. “I hate everything about this idea.”
“Then I guess we better do whatever we need to win this thing,” Ryan says and reaches around me to shake Ander’s hand.
“Can’t wait to see those legs of yours, Christianson,” Ander cackles. He turns his attention back to me. “Yours too, little brother.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “I didn’t shake on it. This is all you two.”
“Suit yourself,” Ander says as he starts to skate away. He looks over his shoulder one last time. “See you both on the other side. Good luck. You’re going to need it.”
I look at Ryan and shake my head at him. “Are you crazy?”
“Nope,” he says with complete confidence. He brings his hand to my helmet and gives me a little shake as if he’s running his hands through my hair.
And now I remember. Ryan always bets on himself, and he hardly ever loses.
Ryan
The ref is holding the puck right at my eyeline. I can just make out Connor’s face on the other side of it. He looks focused. Ready. And most of all, confident he’s going to win this face off.
He’s wrong. As soon as the ref drops the puck, I kick it out of the dot with my stick. Immediately, I turn my attention to where I sent it. Brandon. Always Brandon when I can.
He has it and he’s skating it into the Blizzards’ zone. But quickly, he’s being confronted by their defense. They have him cornered, and I know there’s no way he’ll be able to deke around the both of them. His only hope is to pass. So I had better put myself in a position to receive it.
As I skate down the center of the ice and make my way towards the slot, I see him do a quick turnaround right before he flicks the puck between one of the Blizzards defenders’ legs right towards me. I almost have my stick on it when I see another stick appear, reaching between me and the puck.
It’s Connor, because of course it’s fucking Connor.
He gets to the puck before I can which leaves me with no other choice.
I bend my knees and center myself, then burst towards him with speed and level him with my shoulder before he can get the puck out of his own zone.
The hit makes my ribs scream, but I don’t care.
I have all summer to heal my battle wounds.
The puck leaves Connor’s stick and O’Shea grabs it. But he’s immediately taken down by Gavin; he grabs the puck as it leaves O’Shea and flicks it to Tavish, who skates off with it at full speed.
Danton and Clemmers try to catch him. They can’t. I use all of my strength to sprint towards him. But he’s in our zone before I can catch him and he’s squaring off against Ivanov, who is crouched and ready in his crease in front of our net.
Tavish tries to throw him off by faking left. But Ivanov doesn’t take the bait. He stays focused and when Tavish takes his shot, attempting to send it through Ivanov’s five hole, Ivanov drops to his knees and traps the puck between his leg pads.
As the ref blows his whistle to signal the stop of play, I skate by Ivanov.
“Good fucking save,” I say and tap my fist against his glove.
“Was close one, right,” he says.
“It’ll be running on everyone’s great saves list, that’s for sure,” I tell him, then skate away, feeling my heart beating in my throat.
That was too close for comfort. We can’t let another one of those happen.
There’s only so many breakaways the hockey gods will let a goalie save before one slips past him.
Brandon