Page 41

41

LANE

“ S hit!” Tuck slams his stick onto the floor in front of the bench we have our asses planted on, powerless to stop the disaster unfolding on the ice.

I want to do the same thing, but as captain, I strain my muscles to keep my composure.

Since the five-minute mark of the first period, we’d been tied 1-1 against Northeastern in our first regional round game. The first line just came off the ice after Coach called for us to go all out and play as hard as we could to try and get a goal, but we came up short.

Just seconds after Coach called a shift change because we were spent, Northeastern decided to go on a roll. Our second line D Men shit the bed and allowed them to score two goals in quick succession.

Now, in the middle of the third period, we’re down 1-3.

I want nothing more than to hop over this barricade and get back out there, but my legs are like noodles. I know the rest of the first line guys’ are as well. It’d be suicide to put us back out there before our batteries have recharged some.

It’s a clusterfuck on ice.

But this game isn’t fucking over yet.

Instead of sitting on my ass and wallowing or getting pissed off, I rise to my feet. I stick my fingers in my mouth and let out a high, sharp whistle.

“Come on, Driscoll!” I shout to one of our defensemen out there. “Pump those fucking skates!”

Tuck pushes off the bench next to me and claps his hands loudly. “Nice fucking move, Markov!” he yells to one of our guys who just bodychecked a Northeastern forward into the dashers. “Don’t give those bastards an inch!”

The rest of the team rises to their feet on the bench, cheering wildly and willing our guys out there to hang on.

They do more than hang on. Jamie wins a stick battle with Northeastern’s left forward and gets a breakaway with the puck. He takes it right to the crease, flicking his stick at the last second to send the puck past their goalie’s right side to bring the score to 2-3.

Coach calls for a shift change, sending the first line back out. We hit the ice with a vengeance, reaching deep down to play as hard as we can.

A Northeastern player fires off a slapshot at Hudson, but he deflects it, and it comes right back to me. I unload it to Carter Prescott who dekes past a defender and hammers the puck into Northeastern’s net.

3-3.

Tied game. Two minutes left. The last season of my college career on the line.

Northeastern gets control of the puck. Hudson blocks two solid shots on goal, but we can’t seem to wrestle the puck from them. Until Rhys barrels into their center with a bone-clattering body check and snags it.

He fires it up the ice to Sebastian. Sebastian fakes out one of the Northeastern defenders and sends the puck to Tuck, who skates like a streak of lightning around their net and slides in a wraparound goal.

4-3.

The twenty-five seconds on the clock aren’t enough for Northeastern to do anything with.

Time expires, and we advance.

It’s pandemonium in the locker room. Tuck has Jamie hoisted on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and is spinning him around like a helicopter propeller. Sebastian, for some reason, is humping one of the lockers. Rhys rushes up to me and gives me a chest bump so hard I fall right onto my ass.

Hudson pulled everyone into bear hugs as soon as we got back here. That’s about the extent of how wild he gets to celebrate a win. Now he’s chatting with Summer on his phone.

Speaking of …

I go to my cubby to check my phone. The first thing I see is a notification for a package delivery.

Excitement pulses in my chest.

I made an order right before we left for our four-day stand in Massachusetts for the regionals. I sprung for one-day shipping, because I wanted to be sure it got there quick. For Scarlett.

It’s another gift for her. But a very different kind of gift than any I’ve bought for her so far. It’s a gift for me, too.

After being away from her for a year and a half, these four days feel too much to bear. Just thinking about it dulls some of the thrill of our victory and has an ache of longing sticking to my ribs.

But this delivery will help both of us soothe the sting of separation.

I open my texts and find that Scarlett’s already sent me a congratulations message, featuring all capital letters, plenty of exclamation points, and a strew of emojis.

I tap her contact icon and press the call button.

“Hey, there, future college hockey champion,” she answers.

I chuckle. “Don’t jinx it.”

“You’re right. Should I instead say break a?—”

I wince, cutting her off. “Let’s not go there.”

After we both laugh, I say, “Check for a package on the porch.”

I hear the sound of the door opening from her end of the phone. “Yep, you got something.”

A smirk arches on my lips.

“Be at your computer in an hour and a half. I’m going to FaceTime you. Have the package with you, but don’t open it until then.”

“What’s this all about?” she asks.

Anticipation flickers in my chest. “You’ll see.”