24. Mackie
MACKIE
Oh my god.
Shit.
Absolutely fucking screaming internally.
Where is that damn jersey?
I’m shoulder-deep in a basket of laundry I abandoned last week. We’re in the PLAYOFFS. There are important things happening, and folding clothes isn’t one of them. Where is it? Where IS it?
My fingers brush across silky material and I yank it up through the pile—the arm is tangled around a pair of jeans and I wrench it free at the exact moment my mom knocks and swings open my door.
Which is also the exact moment I realize whose jersey I’m holding.
SHIT.
I clutch it to my chest in full panic mode, arms crossed over the nameplate like I can hide it with my body. Like I can absorb it into my skin through sheer desperation.
“Mackie, seriously, we need to go if we want to make puck drop. We’ve already missed warmups.”
I’m frozen in place. Because she absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, see that the jersey I’m white-knuckling doesn’t say ANDERSON on the back. Doesn’t have my dad’s number.
She raises her eyebrows at me and motions at the blue and green fabric in my hands. “Great, you found it. Let’s go.”
“Yep! Just—” My voice comes out high and squeaky. “Can’t find the tank I want to wear under it. Two minutes.”
She closes her eyes and inhales slowly like she does when I’m testing her last nerve. The exhale goes on forever. “Fine. I’ll be in the car.”
The door clicks shut and my knees buckle.
I’m on the floor next to my bed and there’s a hysterical laugh crawling up my throat because THAT WAS SO CLOSE. That was way too close. I’m an idiot. I’m the world’s biggest idiot for keeping this thing in my actual bedroom where my actual mother could find it at any moment.
I flip the jersey over and run my fingers across the name.
ALMARDON. 35.
The jersey I wear in secret when no one’s home. The jersey I stole from his closet weeks ago that no one can ever know exists because if anyone finds out I’m dating my father’s backup goalie I will literally have to fake my own death and move to Antarctica.
I shove it under my pillow and dig through the laundry pile again to find what I’m looking for. Zach’s plain gray shirt that still smells like his laundry detergent. I pull it on under a Puckaneers hoodie and hope that counts as having him close.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m not at all living a double life that’s going to implode spectacularly at some point.
The family suite is packed.
Game Five. Up three-one in the series. One win from advancing. Everyone’s vibrating with that specific playoff energy that makes you feel like you might throw up or scream or both.
I scan the room for the safest seat, which means: somewhere I can stare at the bench without anyone asking why I’m staring at the bench. Somewhere I can watch number 35 mess with his pads for the nine hundredth time without my mom going “Mackie, why are you looking at Almardon?”
BECAUSE I’M IN LOVE WITH HIM, MOM. BECAUSE I SNEAK INTO HIS APARTMENT THREE TIMES A WEEK. BECAUSE I’M WEARING HIS SHIRT UNDER THIS HOODIE RIGHT NOW AND IT STILL SMELLS LIKE HIS LAUNDRY DETERGENT AND I’M COMPLETELY UNHINGED ABOUT IT.
Obviously I can’t say any of that. So I need a buffer.
Goldie Malone is on the far right. She’s sitting with her daughter Blythe, who’s nine years old and dressed like a disco ball threw up on a hockey fan with her custom ‘Malone’ jersey, glitter in her hair, sparkly pink boots, hot pink leopard print leggings.
If I sit next to Blythe she’ll talk my ear off about whatever nine-year-olds talk about and no one will notice that I’m not actually watching the game.
I sit down and Blythe immediately turns to me with the intensity of the tiniest hockey superfan.
“These are my lucky socks,” she informs me, lifting one sparkly boot to show me the sock underneath.
“I wore them for Games 1, 2 AND 3 and we won all of those games so I have to wear them tonight or we’ll lose and it’ll be my fault. ”
“That’s pretty solid logic.”
“I know. My mom says socks aren’t lucky but I think she’s wrong.”
“I think you might be right.”
She beams at me and launches into an explanation of her full game day routine, which apparently involves eating chocolate chip waffles with her step-dad Dex for luck before his game, then for lunch seven chicken nuggets and watching the same episode of some cartoon three times in a row.
I’m nodding along but my eyes keep drifting to the ice, to the bench, to—
There.
Zach’s sitting at the end, mask on top of his head, and I wish I could text him. To tell him I’m here, I’m watching, I see him.
And I can’t risk my mom glancing over and seeing his name on my screen.
So I just stare at the back of his helmet and hope he can somehow feel it.
The first period is fine. Fast, physical, but fine. We’re up one-nothing and Luca’s been solid in net and everything is going according to plan.
Second period, still fine. They tie it up but whatever, it’s playoff hockey, nothing’s ever easy. Third period is when it all goes to shit.
Five minutes in, there’s a scrum in front of Luca’s net. Bodies everywhere, sticks tangled, the whistle blowing but nobody actually stopping. Standard playoff nonsense.
Then one of their forwards says something to Luca.
I can’t hear it from up here. Can’t even really see through all the bodies.
But I see Luca’s reaction.
He goes completely still, like someone hit pause on him. Then his whole body tenses and I swear to god I can feel the energy shift from the family suite, like something very bad is about to happen.
“Uh oh,” Blythe says next to me.
Not reassuring, coming from a nine-year-old who apparently has psychic abilities.
The forward skates away. Play resumes. Luca makes a save. Everything’s fine.
Except it’s not fine. I can tell it’s not fine. Luca’s movements are different now, he’s not just playing, he’s seething.
Two minutes later, the forward is back in front of the net and says something else.
Luca doesn’t hesitate. He drops his stick, throws his glove, and LAUNCHES himself at the guy like he’s trying to commit murder on live television.
“HOLY SHIT,” someone behind me yells, which, yeah, same.
The arena explodes. Luca’s on top of the forward, blocker still on, and he’s just whaling on him while screaming. I can’t understand a single word but I understand the tone. The tone is I am going to end your entire existence.
Refs blowing whistles. Both benches emptying. Someone’s bleeding—a lot, there’s a lot of blood on the ice—and it takes six guys to pull Luca off. He’s still fighting, still screaming, and the sound of it is going to live in my nightmares.
They’re escorting him off the ice.
Game misconduct. Ejection.
Which means—
My heart stops.
Which means they need another goalie.
I watch Zach stand up from the bench. Watch him pull his mask down.
His hands aren’t steady. I can see that from here.
He skates toward the crease and my stomach is somewhere around my ankles because he hasn’t warmed up.
He was just sitting there. He wasn’t ready for this and now he’s skating into the third period of a playoff game.
He looks so small in net. Even from up here I can see him swallow hard before he drops into position.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come on, Zach, you’ve got this.”
Blythe’s hand finds mine and squeezes. I don’t know if she’s comforting me or herself but I squeeze back and don’t let go. Someone takes my other hand and I turn my head to see Rodriguez’s girlfriend, Juliette.
Play resumes.
The other team smells blood and they’re pressing hard, throwing everything at the net, and Zach makes the first save. Then the second. I’m holding Blythe’s hand so tight I’m probably hurting her but she doesn’t complain.
Three minutes later they score on a deflection. The puck bounces off someone’s skate and changes direction and Zach’s glove closes on air and the red light goes on and I make a sound that doesn’t sound human.
“It’s okay,” Goldie says, touching my shoulder. “It’s one goal. They’ll come back.”
But they don’t.
Five minutes left and they score again on a breakaway.
Zach gets a piece of it but not enough and the puck slides past him.
The final buzzer sounds and in all the years I’ve watched from family suites, and private boxes, and right up against the glass at times, I can’t remember feeling as defeated as this. The series is now three-two.
The team looks miserable in the handshake line and Zach is the last one off the ice. He pulls his mask off and even from here I can see his face. The way he won’t look at anyone, like he wants to disappear.
He’s going to go home and take himself apart over this. I know him. He’s going to sit on his couch in the dark and watch those goals over and over until he’s convinced himself he’s worthless. That they should call someone up from the AHL. That he doesn’t belong here.
Blythe tugs on my hand. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna cry.”
I am going to cry. I’m going to absolutely lose it.
“I’m fine, sweetie. Just sad we lost.”
“We’ll get them in Game 6.” She says it with the absolute confidence of a nine-year-old who believes her lucky socks control the universe. “Luca will be back and we’ll win.”
Luca’s not going to be back. Not after that fight, and I’ve seen some really bad fights in my life. Which means Zach’s going to have to start Game 6 in an away city and he’s already spiraling and I can’t be there and I can’t help and I can’t—
I have to see him.
Tonight. I don’t care what lies I have to tell. I don’t care what I have to do.
I have to see him.
I’m in the passenger seat of Mom’s car, twisting a loose thread on my jeans around my finger until the tip turns red and starts throbbing.
Post-game traffic is crawling out of the arena garage and Mom hasn’t said anything since we got in the car, which is somehow worse than yelling, because I know she’s pissed, but it’s the quiet kind where you can feel her picking her words and discarding them one by one.