Chapter 21
KNOX
It’s Saturday night and we’re facing the Kings on their home ice. It’s the third in a series of west coast games, and although we arrived Monday, the time change is still screwing with my internal clock.
Road series are always tough, but the guys are grinding, and despite losing to the Sharks on Tuesday, we pulled off a win against the Ducks on Thursday. If we can put up a repeat performance, we’ll earn our first back-to-back wins of the season.
After the shit show last week, we need it more than ever. We’re getting torn apart online and, as predicted, Bash and Fedy have become a meme.
Even so, spirits are high in the locker room. Practices have been solid this week, and thanks to Ava, it feels like things are starting to click. We need the win as much for her as for ourselves.
Seeing her break down last weekend and knowing she feels like she’s not making an impact nearly gutted me.
It’s obvious to anyone watching how hard she’s working and how much she cares. Any lack of results is on us, not her, and I know the guys feel the same way. Now it’s time to show her that her efforts weren’t in vain, and that she was right to give us one more chance.
I hadn’t realized how much our poor performance was affecting her, but I should have.
Ava hasn’t said it aloud, but she wants to impress her father as much as I do.
She’s busting her ass to earn his approval, but Coach is only half the reason we can’t be together.
The other half is her job, and it’s more than just the fraternization policy.
It’s the fact that her position isn’t permanent.
And any chance of receiving a full-time offer is contingent on performance. Hers and ours.
So win some fucking games already.
It’s easier said than done, but I’m optimistic we just might turn the corner tonight.
It doesn’t hurt that the Kings have also gotten off to a slow start this season. Their record is better than ours, but not by much.
We’re warmed up and with only twenty minutes until puck drop, the adrenaline is flowing.
D-Vo nudges my arm. “You with us?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I rake my fingers through my hair. I need to get my head on straight. The only thing I should be thinking about—the only thing that matters right now—is the Kings.
I can worry about Ava, Coach, and the fucked-up web we’re weaving after the game.
God knows I’ll have plenty of time on my hands back at the hotel.
“It’s going to be weird playing on different lines,” he says, eyes downcast as he retapes his stick. It’s his pregame ritual, and he’s maniacal about it. If anyone touches his stick before the game, he’ll rip the tape off and start over. “I figured we’d always be linemates, just like in college.”
Coach reworked the lines for tonight’s game, moving McGinnis and Kristiansen to the first line with the former shifting from center to left wing.
“I thought so too, but who knows? This just might be the shake-up we need.” I clap him on the shoulder. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my number one.”
“Same, brother.” He looks up, a wicked grin on his face. “What about your good luck charm? Where does she fit into the lineup?”
I freeze, trying to think of a way to tell him to shut the fuck up that won’t draw attention.
“It’s not…” Not what? Not like that? D-Vo would see right through my bullshit. He’s known me for more than a decade, and he’s smart enough to know I wouldn’t let her go a second time. “We’re not talking about this.”
He snorts. “Sure, just like we’re not talking about the fact that you have her picture in your stall.”
It’s risky as hell with Ava working for the team, but it would be weirder if the guys saw me suddenly break my pregame ritual. Besides, the photo strip is tiny. You’d have to be holding it to see any level of detail.
So, no. I’m not about to break with tradition. Not when I need luck on my side more than ever.
“Good talk.” I shoot him a pointed look, but he ignores me. “Since we’re on the same page, we won’t need to discuss it again.”
Not in the locker room, anyway.
D-Vo snorts. “Sure, Jamesy. As long as it doesn’t affect the team.”
It won’t. I won’t let it.
When all the guys have finished their pregame rituals, I stand and call for attention.
“Tonight we face the Kings on their home ice. Some people say that gives them an advantage, but that’s bullshit. We have the advantage tonight. They’re going to underestimate us because our record is lousy and they haven’t seen what we’re capable of as a team.”
There’s a murmur of assent and a few guys tap their sticks.
“If we play tonight like we played at practice this week, we will come out on top.”
“Hell yeah!” McGinnis shouts, his eyes bright, as the locker room cheers grow in volume. Even the coaching staff joins in.
“We’re going to go out there and crash the net, and we aren’t going to let up until we light the lamp.
There’s still a lot of hockey left to play this season, so tonight we’re going to win this game for ourselves, for our coaching staff, and most importantly, for Ava.
She’s been working her ass off to help us get better, and delivering back-to-back wins is the least we can do. ”
The cheers reach a crescendo, and by the time we take the ice, the team’s energy is palpable. Guys are champing at the bit, all of us determined to bring home a much-needed W. To prove we’re not a lost cause.
If I have to shove the rubber down their goalie’s throat to make it happen, so be it.
Nervous energy coils in my gut as I take my place at center ice. The crowd is subdued for a Saturday night, which is probably a reflection of the Kings’ record.
I sympathize, but I’m playing to win. If they catch a break tonight, it sure as hell won’t be from me.
The ref barks, “Sticks down!” and I move into position, sweat already lining my brow.
My opponent follows suit and then we wait, both of us laser-focused on the puck, both of us waiting for the telltale muscle twitch. I block out the sound of the screaming fans and the loud music, my world narrowing to the biscuit, the ice, and my stick.
The puck drops and I’m already moving, but Benedict, my opponent, is fast. I lean into him, using my shoulder to push him off the rubber, but we’re evenly matched.
We fight for control, our sticks clashing, before he sweeps the puck back to one of his forwards.
They waste no time advancing on our goal.
Fuck. I should’ve won that face-off.
I skate hard, but Kristiansen is there. He uses his massive size to force the puck carrier to the outside, where MacKenzie smashes him against the boards.
Hell yes. That’s what I’m talking about.
They battle along the boards, and Mac comes up with the puck.
He flips it to Ginny up top, and we reverse course, driving toward the Kings’ goal.
It goes back and forth like this for most of the first period, but early in the second, Hardy has a big hit, forcing a turnover. Ginny steals the puck, outskating his coverage to face the Kings’ defense two on one.
The kid has an incredible hockey IQ and seems to know how the defenders will respond, almost before they do. He dekes, and the one on the right glides closer, leaving the far side of the net exposed.
He’s so focused on Ginny, he doesn’t see me coming. I skate into position just as the rookie executes a perfect drop pass that all but lands on my blade.
A fresh burst of adrenaline floods my system as I wind up and take the shot, putting all my strength behind it.
The puck slices through the air. It’s got to be going ninety miles per hour, and it’s heading straight for the net.
Come on, baby.
The goalie lunges, and the puck rebounds off his glove. Disappointment flares, but Ginny is right there, batting the puck into the net with his stick.
Pride explodes in my chest.
Now that’s how you play hockey.
Ginny glides around the net, pumping his fist in the air, and when he reaches me, I throw my arms around his shoulders in a celebratory hug. “That was a nasty goal.”
Cheeks flushed, he grins and claps me on the back. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Kristiansen joins in the celly, and then we make our way to the bench for a line change, where the rest of the team is cheering.
My nerves begin to settle, replaced by cool confidence.
We’re going to win this game. Everyone is playing well, Bouchard is a brick wall, and while the new lines aren’t as familiar as the old ones, McGinnis, Kristiansen, and I have good chemistry.
With a little more practice, we could be unstoppable.
Things are finally going our way and the whole team seems to feel it.
The energy on the bench is electric, and by the third period, we’ve got the momentum.
We’re leading the Kings 2-0, but their fans are rallying, and in a desperate attempt to shift the momentum, one of their defenders cross-checks Ginny from behind, sending him crashing face-first into the boards.
“What the fuck?” Breathing hard, I skate for McGinnis, but he’s off the boards in an instant, shoving Stillman, the defender who took the cheap shot.
“You wanna go?” Ginny shouts. “Let’s fucking go.”
Oh, hell. Kristiansen gave him some self-defense pointers this week, but he’s by no means a skilled fighter.
“Aww, did Baby Glider get his feelings hurt?” Stillman throws out his arms in a taunting gesture. He’s clearly trying to intimidate the rookie, and it’s not a bad strategy given he’s got forty pounds on the kid. “Welcome to the NHL, pussy.”
Before McGinnis can respond, Kristiansen grabs Stillman by the sweater and spins him around. He hisses something I can’t hear, and then they both drop their gloves and square up.
Kristiansen doesn’t hesitate. He throws the first punch, clipping Stillman’s jaw.
The defender retaliates, but his fist glances off Kristiansen’s shoulder.
They trade punches, Kristiansen going for the face and shoulders while Stillman, with his shorter stature and arms, attempts to get in a few rib shots.
Bash takes the hits, but they don’t slow him down.
He clutches Stillman’s jersey in his left hand while delivering blow after blow with the right.
This is the Kristiansen I’ve played against for the last five years. The one I expected when news of his trade hit the wire. But knowing he’s fighting because he wants to—because he feels like part of the team—makes it that much sweeter.
Stillman’s helmet goes flying, and Kristiansen takes him to the ground, protecting the back of the other player’s head with his palm as he pins him to the ice. “You touch the rookie again, I’ll take your fucking head off,” he growls, shoving off the defender as the linesmen rush in.
They take both men by the arm and lead them to the penalty box, but not before Ginny thanks Kristiansen and we both give him a fist bump and a slap on the back.
Both benches are tapping their sticks, and several of our guys call out to Kristiansen in a show of support.
The crowd is going nuts and the noise level in the arena has reached a fever pitch. It doesn’t matter who wins; the fans love a good fight.
Hell, they’re probably hoping one of their guys will retaliate against Kristiansen later.
With Kristiansen thumping the Kings’ defender, we maintain momentum through the third period, and when the final buzzer sounds, the scoreboard reads 2-0.
Fuckin’ right it does.
Pulse thrumming, I join my teammates. We rush Bouchard, celebrating back-to-back wins and his first shutout of the season.
Seeing my teammates laugh and smile after weeks of loss and uncertainty has me grinning like a fool, the warm glow of pride emanating from every sweaty pore.
Normally, I wouldn’t take such pleasure in beating a team that’s struggling, but a win is a win, and we needed this.
For ourselves and for Ava. The only way this moment could be better is if she were here by my side to share it.
This is her victory as much as ours, and if I’m being honest, I miss her, but I know she’s at home watching us right now.