Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
At last, the time has come.
There’s something strangely Zen about knowing that, win or lose, Nick’s hockey season will be over in just a few short hours.
The rink is chaos. Nick and Marco aren’t the only ones with family in for the occasion—there’s a whole section packed out with loved ones here to support the team.
Tony’s daughter will be disappointed to be losing Sticks+Stones from the manager’s box, but Matt insists they’ll be exactly where they’re supposed to be tonight.
“Better get used to it for next season, eh,” Connor remarks—then goes wide-eyed in horror as alarm flashes across Nick’s face.
God, it’s a good thing the site is going live tonight regardless. If Nick has to keep it a secret much longer, he’s going to give himself an ulcer.
He wonders how the other guys are feeling, knowing that the world will change for them by the end of the evening.
Sunny is probably like him—too focused on the game ahead to give a shit about much else.
Nick’s glad for that, in a way; if he wasn’t playing tonight, he’d be worrying himself sick about the potential mistake he’s making.
It’s humbling, knowing that those guys have put such trust in him.
When he gets the chance, he corners Connor privately. “Any regrets about tonight?” he asks, and they both know he’s not talking about hockey.
“None whatsoever,” Connor replies without hesitation. “You?”
“Ask me after the game,” Nick jokes. They both grin. “Thank you, though. For doing this with me. For … for everything.” It feels right, having Connor here, the way it felt so wrong to have him missing from every other milestone of his career.
“Thank you,” Connor fires back. “For forgiving me. I … I don’t think I could’ve done anything I’ve done in the last year without that. I’m ready for this, whatever happens.”
Nick can only hope the other guys are feeling as confident about their decisions.
He survives another round of hugs and kisses and well-wishes, and then the whole Dragons roster is parting ways with their supporters, ready to get themselves in the zone for the game.
Things get serious very quickly. Everyone runs through their pre-game routine with a terrifying amount of determination.
They go over their strategies one last time; Tony gives them all a stern reminder that there will be enough chances for power plays without baiting penalties, and when his eyes linger pointedly on Nick, the captain just smirks and offers a salute.
He doesn’t need to bait anything, here. The game will get aggressive all by itself.
The pre-game hours are a blur for Nick, just like every other game day but with that extra little spark to them.
A bunch of guys play soccer in the loading dock hallway; Noodle bounces two balls in completely different rhythms with each hand; Picard juggles oranges until Motormouth steals one and starts peeling it; Marco does his weird little fancy-feet warm-up routine.
The same as any regular pre-game. And yet, so different.
Nick’s pre-game routine is simpler. He lunges up and down the long hallway, re-tapes his stick, and then he just kind of hovers from player to player, checking that everybody is as they should be.
His circuit is as deep-set as the other guys’ traditions, to the point where Noodle fist-bumps him as he passes without even breaking his stride with the bouncy balls.
One of the last stops on his tour of the team is Picard, who sits in his stall with a white-knuckled grip on his goalie mask, chewing his lip ragged.
“Hey,” Nick murmurs, dropping down beside him.
“You’re gonna do great, okay? Patrick Roy eat your fucking heart out.
” That earns a weak smile. Nick nudges him gently.
“Trust me, man. You’re starting tonight because you’re goddamn magic. So have a little faith.”
Picard swallows tightly, running his fingers over the wire of his cage.
“I … I don’t want to let anyone down,” he croaks, and Nick’s heart breaks, remembering his own rookie cup season.
The pressure put on him as captain was ridiculous, and he can imagine the pressure put on a goalie is about the same.
“Nobody is going to feel let down, no matter what happens out there tonight,” he promises. “Unless you literally sit and fire that puck into your own net for fun, you will not let us down. It’s a team effort, remember? Just do your thing. You with me?”
There’s a beat, and then the kid gives a determined nod. “I’m with you.”
“Hell yeah.” Nick bumps his fist, then ruffles his hair and leaves him to finish getting ready. At last, the only people left to talk to are Marco and Hugsy. His boys, his As from the start, his lifeline in this whirlwind. They welcome him into a three-way hug, their heads pressed close together.
“Let’s fucking do this, boys,” Hugsy says, a savage grin tugging at his lips.
“Number three, we got this,” Nick returns. He looks over his shoulder for Duke and Howie, whistling to beckon them over. Howie’s in a suit and crutches, but there was no way he was missing this to sit in the stands. He’s still a member of the team.
“Original five, baby,” Nick crows, beaming at all of them. “Ready to add a little more silverware to your shelves?”
“You know it, Cap.” Duke smirks at him, mouthguard dangling from the corner of his lips.
Tony and Jazz appear in the doorway, and the room falls silent.
Stepping forward, Tony clears his throat, looking stern.
“Gentlemen,” he begins, “you’ve worked long and hard to get here.
And there’s absolutely jack shit I can tell you now that will change anything that’s about to happen out there.
” He claps his hands together, nodding decisively.
“You all know your jobs. Now get out there and do ’em! ”
Hugsy whoops loudly, setting off the rest of the team. Nick joins in, pumping his fist in the air, letting the adrenaline overtake him.
They’re ready for this.
When they skate out for warm-ups, the atmosphere is electric.
Nick can’t hear his own thoughts for the wall of sound the crowd has become—red and silver sparkles from every corner of the stands.
There are a few brave souls in Comets jerseys, but it’s an overwhelmingly home crowd tonight, and Nick’s blood pumps all the faster for it.
Nick knows what to expect, when the anthem starts up, but it still takes him by surprise to hear Matt’s husky voice ring through the arena speakers—a decision that was only finalized a couple days ago.
Pride swells in him like a balloon, and for the first time in his career he’s perfectly still through the whole rendition, listening to the voice of an angel.
With a start like that, how could they possibly lose?
The thing about playing game seven of a cup final, is that both teams know there’s nothing after this. No further games they need to keep themselves healthy for, no upcoming rounds. This is it. The final hour.
It’s kind of a bloodbath.
Literally. They’re only in the second period and Nick’s already had to change out of a bloodied jersey once, his cheek puffy from where he went face-first into someone’s shoulder.
But he’s fine. It’s just a cut. So the Comets jeer about scuffing up his pretty face, and Nick taunts them for still being uglier than he is, and the next thing he knows there’s dropped gloves and Moose is coming to his rescue and Nevada has the power-play.
Eighty-three seconds in, Nick gets the puck to Sunny, who tips it in beautifully and sends the goal horn wailing.
Perfection.
It brings the score to 4–2, but Nick isn’t going to rest on his laurels yet. A two-goal gap in hockey is nothing.
He finishes his shift, hauling himself over the boards and grabbing his water bottle, sucking in desperate sips while he catches his breath.
“How’s your head, Trix?” Tony checks, and Nick grins broadly.
“Never had complaints.”
Tony gives a long-suffering sigh, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “There’s gonna be a lot of that next season, isn’t there?”
The whole front office is aware of Nick’s upcoming stunt, after Nick realized a few days ago that they might murder him if he didn’t give at least some warning—and that Tony’s comment about his “good luck charm” might have been an attempt at support.
“I’ll try and restrain myself,” he promises, but they both know he’s lying.
“Seriously, though, I’m all good, I swear. ”
Nick has one more shift before the buzzer goes, then they’re filing back into the locker room for second intermission. Nick isn’t surprised to see Kat beckon Sunny over for an interview—the kid’s been a star all game.
Nick pulls off his jersey to cool off, unlaces his skates, and leans back in his stall with his eyes half-closed. Twenty more minutes, then they’re done. Because he’ll be damned if this thing goes to overtime.
That’s exactly what he tells his team before they head back out, and they cheer in agreement—none of them wants to be on that ice any longer than they have to be.
The third kicks off with a battle for the puck and a narrowly avoided tripping call on Duke’s part; and, unfortunately, another goal for the Comets. Nick watches them celebrate, and huffs around his mouthguard.
No more of those, thank you.
Nick gets through his next shift, and then another. And then a penalty kill after Banjo collides with the Washington goalie, the exhausted unit of four gathering their strength to defend the goal for—hopefully—the last time that game.
Three minutes and fifty-three seconds. They can do this. All they have to do is defend.
Nick grins to himself. Or, he could widen the gap a little.