Epilogue
VIKTOR
March
I SIT IN THE DRESSING ROOM, CENTRED AND FOCUSED.
MY LAST GAME AS A MONARCH MUSTANG, and it’s the biggest one ever.
Tonight is the MIAC championship. We’re the underdogs, playing in the arena of the St. Clare University Saints.
These guys eliminated us last season, so winning would mean both redemption and a championship.
It was a battle to get here, and there’s been attrition. We’re missing Ethan Unger and Logan Pederson, and everyone else is banged up. Because we wouldn’t be here without leaving everything on the ice every single night.
Mats pulls off his shirt beside me, and there’s a huge mottled bruise across his left shoulder.
Ouch, I say.
He shrugs. Not that I’d expect him to complain. I hope he’ll be captain next year; he’s smart and tough enough.
I feel remarkably calm. When Marko was missing, hockey was my escape but it also became…
just a game. Important, yes, but not as important as people.
Because of my brother, I also learned that acting like a strong and faultless captain wasn’t what our team needed.
Once I admitted I needed help, the guys united to support me.
Grecs confessed that he’d resented how perfect I seemed to be, even as I’d been hiding my pain and insecurities.
And our team bonded by raising funds for a cause that was bigger than our everyday problems.
Marko is here tonight, along with my parents. It’s only been two months, but he looks a lot better. He’s been going for counselling as well as working with a physiotherapist to regain the strength he lost in prison.
Our separation brought us closer as brothers.
Last night, Marko confided that his physiotherapist is really hot, so he’s definitely getting back to normal.
And he’s got a direction now. He wants to train as a prosthetist so he can return to Ukraine and work with injured soldiers who have lost limbs.
Rehabilitation is where we want to focus with the Zelenko Brothers Fund.
Once I start earning money, I’ll donate a big portion of my salary to the fund too.
Sid’s going to send video of my playoff performances to the interested teams to get me an invite to their prospect camps.
But now is not the time to think about the future. As I tie up my skates, I visualize how tonight’s game will go: winning face-offs, making crisp passes, shooting…scoring.
Gentlemen, Coach Norman calls out, and we all sit up and pay attention.
He’s the smartest coach I’ve ever worked with, and I’ve never regretted the move to Monarch to play for him.
He got here only a year before me, but since then he’s improved the team every year through good recruiting, coaching changes, and better preparation.
This year, thanks to Marjorie Schultz’s donation, our training is the best it’s ever been. We’re ready.
One night. One game. It all comes down to this, guys. You’ve worked your asses off to get to this championship game. Dig down deep and give me the big game I know that each of you has inside. Win each shift and we’ll win the game.
Usually, he does some Xs and Os talk about the opposition, but not tonight.
We’ve already done the full pre-scout on the St. Clare Saints: Marc Dufresne is their hotshot goalie, Kit Cooper is their big sniper, and their power play is deadly.
The Saints have sailed through the playoffs and see us as a speed bump on their championship drive.
I like being the underdog though. The harder we’ve battled to get here, the tougher we’ve become.
Coach Norman looks my way. Anything to add, Captain?
There’s so much I want to say. How close I feel to these guys and how I’ll remember this season my entire life. How much I’m going to miss this team. But there’s a time for sentiment and a time to get pumped.
Let’s fucking go, boys, I yell. And then we put our hands in. Mustangs on three. One. Two. Three.
Mustangs! we scream for the last time.
THE GAME COULD NOT HAVE GOTTEN OFF TO A WORSE START. WE’RE DOWN 3–0 HALFWAY THROUGH. And it’s not from a lack of trying. We’re outshooting them, but fucking Dufresne is in the zone and stopping everything. It’s so frustrating, and I’m reliving all the scoring opportunities I’ve missed.
I shake my head. No negative self-talk. I look up into the crowd, knowing exactly where Evie is sitting.
Her smiling face shines out under a halo of dark hair and her purple knit toque.
Just seeing her calms me. Of course she wants me to win, but the result doesn’t matter.
Evie cares about me as a person, not a hockey captain or a rich kid or a campus stud.
Just me, flawed in all the ways I hate admitting.
I exhale and concentrate on the game.
I feel like if we get just one past him, it’ll open up the game, I say to Mats and Murph on the bench.
Yeah, they’re trapping right now, Mats agrees. St. Clare is keeping four guys back, content to sit on that lead for the rest of game.
Murph grunts agreement. We gotta get into that goalie’s head.
Coach Norman bends down and puts his hands on my shoulder and Mats. Next offensive draw, I want to run our backhand-forehand set play. You two, Murph, Coty, and Sinc.
I nod. There are a few set plays we’ve been running this season, but not during the playoffs. So maybe the element of surprise will work now.
Mats and I don’t usually play together since we’re both centres. But the five of us are the first power play unit. Unfortunately, St. Clare hasn’t taken a penalty yet. Well, they have, but the refs are sitting on their whistles.
When our chance comes, we skate out there. The draw is on Mats’s strong side, so he’ll take it and I’ll play wing.
I know exactly what I’m supposed to do in the set play: grab the puck that Mats backhands to me and shoot right away.
But in the split second that Mats wins the puck and players begin to move, I can see a number of things happening.
Two of the Saints players are moving towards me.
They’re going to double-team me either because they pre-scouted our set plays or because I’m the team’s high scorer.
The goalie is getting into position for my shot, and there’s very little net to aim for.
And Coty is sneaking into the empty ice on the opposite side.
So I fake the shot I’m supposed to take and instead slide the puck onto Coty’s stick. He one-times it. The goalie tries to get over, but he’s too late.
Goal! We’ve finally solved this guy!
I rush over to hug Coty, who is gliding on one skate around the boards and giving it to the Saints fans. What a beauty. I tackle him first.
Sweet fuckin’ pass, Coty tells me.
Sweeter fucking goal, I reply before the rest of the guys jump on us.
Now that we’ve gotten a goal past Dufresne, he’s reduced from hockey god to mortal status.
And just as I predicted, we start scoring. First, a slapshot by Sinc that’s going way off the target until the Saints defenceman accidentally tips it into his own net. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard, but that doesn’t stop me from celebrating loudly.
The tying goal happens when Grecs makes a huge hit in the O-zone, causing a turnover that Swanny pounces on. He drives to the net and shoots hard—right into the chest of Dufresne. But there’s a big rebound, which Bergy whacks into the net.
Our entire bench jumps up and cheers, even the coaches. As the boys skate by to slap hands, I’ve never seen a bigger grin on Bergy’s face. On the bench, Grecs tells Bergy that pussy is guaranteed after a big goal like that. Fuck, if that’s what it takes to motivate Bergy, fine.
With two minutes left in regulation time, the Saints are feeling the pressure. They’ve squandered a three-goal lead, and we keep coming in waves. They start to make little mistakes that come from holding their sticks too tight.
So, when I see a Saints defenseman attempt a soft cross-ice pass, I go full speed to intercept that puck.
Then I’m in on a breakaway. Like a fucking cyborg, I recall everything Coach told us about Dufresne’s weaknesses in goal.
I look five-hole all the way, like I’m planning to slide one between his pads, one of his weak spots.
And when he goes down a fraction of a second too early, I roof the fucking puck over his shoulder.
That red light is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
We hold them off for the remaining ninety seconds and get the win. There are speeches, handshakes, and congratulations. And then the championship trophy is handed to me. I raise it above my head and we all cheer. This fucking team. We’re champions and we’ll remember this game our entire lives.
EVIE
WE WATCH THE TEAM SKATING AROUND WITH THE TROPHY, BUBBLING WITH JOY AND CAMARADERIE. They’re hugging each other and grinning. We can hear cheering, laughter and even tuneless singing.
Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mats so happy, declares Cleo. Not even after a really good blow job.
Andy snort-laughs so hard that she starts coughing.
I’m sitting with some of the hockey girlfriends: Cleo, Andy, Rosie, and Caroline Kelly, Ross Murphy’s girlfriend who plays hockey with Cleo.
The St. Clare fans have already left the arena in disappointment, so only Mustangs supporters remain to witness the joy.
I’m pretty sure that last year you said that winning our championship was better than sex, Caroline quips.
Did I? Well, I meant regular sex, not sex with Mats. Then Cleo frowns at Caroline. And don’t remind me of all the jerks I dated before him.
I’m grateful that I didn’t have to date a bunch of jerks first or suffer through sub-optimal sex.