Chapter 29 #2
The Comets haven’t pulled their goalie yet, but as far as Nick’s concerned that just makes the challenge more fun.
He throws himself into the fray, stealing the puck and tearing down the ice on a breakaway.
He’s vaguely aware of the rest of his team practically throwing themselves in the way of the Comets players they can reach—there’s still two and a goalie in front of Nick.
Easy pickings.
They make the mistake of moving towards him, getting closer together, ready to defend against the shining star of the NHL.
But Nick has been the league’s top goalscorer twice for a reason.
Using his small stature to his advantage, Nick ducks down low and dekes to the left, pulling right again just after both defenders have put all their weight into their movements.
The one closest to the goalie realizes his mistake and wheels back, but it’s too late.
Nick lines up his shot, grits his teeth, and fires the puck.
The swish of puck hitting net is the most glorious sound, closely followed by the ear-splitting bellow of the goal horn.
Nick turns just in time to brace for his teammates barreling into him in joy. They know what it means, to have widened the lead this late in the game. Nick looks up at the clock.
It’s stopped on 3:02.
Not to get ahead of himself, but he thinks they might have this.
“Hell of a job, Tiernan,” Tony mutters, gripping his shoulder tight. He looks up at the rest of the team. “Go on, boys. Bring it home.”
They set up for the puck drop. Nick settles on the bench, knee bouncing. It’s the worst, watching the clock tick down like this. Being so close, and yet so aware that anything could happen in the next three minutes. Games have been lost in less.
At two minutes remaining, the Comets goalie races for the bench so they can bring on an extra forward. At one minute remaining, Nick and Marco and Sunny hop the boards for their last shift of the game.
The first thing Nick does is get the puck and hold it long enough for their defense pair to switch. Then he takes one look at the sprawl of white jerseys in front of him, decides fuck it, and lunges forward.
He hears Marco’s exclamation of, “Jesus fucking Christ!” and cackles as he meets his best friend’s long-suffering gaze. They’ve worked together on the ice for six years now and it shows in the way Marco knows exactly what he’s up to. Nick just hopes Sunny can keep up.
Nick doesn’t need to try to draw a crowd when he has the puck.
The Comets swarm him, blocking him from their unprotected net.
Nick skids to an abrupt halt before he reaches the O-zone, flicking the puck back to Marco, the complete opposite direction of the goal.
It’s enough to confuse the defending players and they veer towards Marco, clearly expecting him to go for a breakaway, leaving Nick free to slide back into an open section just on the neutral zone side of his blue line.
He sets his stick to the ice. Marco looks up and sends the puck his way.
Nick winds up, eyes fixed on the empty goal, and swings just as the puck reaches him.
The little black disc rockets across the ice, past all six defending players, and slides neatly into the back of the net.
The arena explodes. Nick is buried in a huddle of crimson jerseys as hats rain down on the ice. Marco grabs him and smacks a kiss to the side of his face. “You fucking lunatic, I love you!” he declares, and Nick laughs and hugs him back, his veins burning with electricity.
Sliding over to the bench in one writhing mass of limbs, Nick is almost hauled over the boards by the force of their excitement.
The Comets are gathered by their own bench, scowling and furious.
The referee stands with his arms folded, impatient to get things moving before the frustration can escalate.
They reset with only thirty-six seconds on the clock. It’s a done deal—they all know it. They’ve just got to wait it out.
There’s a moment, after the face-off, where Nick worries gloves are about to drop. Moose is bumped hard by one of the opposing D-men, but even the Comets seem to realize there’s little point in dragging this out any further.
Thirty seconds of keep-away is child’s play, and then there it is.
The final buzzer goes.
The Nevada Dragons have won the Stanley Cup.
Nick tosses his stick with one hand and his helmet with the other.
A shake of his hands has his gloves flying to the ice …
just in time to get absolutely flattened by the mass of exuberant hockey players crashing towards him.
He’s laughing as he hits the boards, tears of joy streaking down his face.
He might be screaming—it’s hard to tell in all the noise and the lights and the sheer fucking euphoria coursing through him.
At some point, his feet slip out from underneath him, and he falls on his back on the ice.
“WE FUCKING DID IT, KID!” Marco roars in his face, sprawled almost entirely on top of Nick. Nick wraps around him like a limpet, laughing and sobbing and gripping the back of Marco’s jersey like it’s the only thing grounding him in reality. Several more teammates pile on top of them.
The next few minutes are a whirlwind, but he does eventually make it onto his feet, mostly so he can charge across the ice and grab Tony in a hug, too.
And then, the constant murmur of sound within the arena changes in tone. There are gasps, exclamations of surprise, incredulous shouts. Nick frowns in confusion, and then Jazz looks up from her phone, turning the screen so he can see a picture of himself filling it.
“Congratulations, Trix,” she says, smiling so wide it looks like it hurts. “You’re out.”
Holy shit. Nick had forgotten about that.