Page 156 of Learn Your Lesson

My heart pounding in my ears, fast, but steady.

Chirps from my teammates.

Curses at missed attempts.

The crowd chanting and screaming.

The satisfyingplunkof a puck hitting the bar and bouncing off.

The even more satisfying buzzer when we scored.

This was the symphony of the fifth game of the final round in the Stanley Cup Playoffs, and it was music to my ears.

Three periods had happened in what felt like a blink of an eye. It was impossible to be fully present in a game like this because every ounce of energy was tied up in doing what you came to do. Our wingers were focused on scoring. Our defensemen protected me. I protected the goal. And as a team, we fought tooth and fucking nail to clinch the win.

We were ahead three games to one in this series, and if we took it tonight… it was over.

The Cup was ours.

Tampa buzzed with an energy I’d never felt from the city I knew and loved, not in all my years on the Ospreys. We battled it out to a sold-out crowd, all of them ready with fish in hand to make it rain on the ice. Banners hung from skyscrapers and city banks. The lights on the riverwalk twinkled blue and white. Every radio station and news outlet were tuned intothisgame, to this period, to these final minutes.

If we lost, we’d still have a chance — but our next game would be in Sacramento. Traveling back and forth between the west and east coast was brutal for even our most seasoned players, and when Coach huddled us up in the locker room before the game, we were all in agreement.

We were winning this thing.

Tonight.

I knew I looked like a wild animal from the outside, my eyes as wide as they could go as I took in every slash of the puck and every change in direction from each player on the ice. My heart skipped before tripling its pace when the puck was suddenly heading my way, perfectly in the control of Sacramento’s center.

He drilled toward me like he was going to take the shot himself, but as I crouched low and prepared to block, I spotted the right winger cutting past Jaxson.

The center passed, the winger wound up with all his might before knocking the puck toward me, and I snapped into action like I could read his mind.

My left leg shot out, putting me practically in a middle split, and the puck hit my shin guard before popping back.

I didn’t have time to celebrate the block before I wasin position again, another shot coming from the left winger who was waiting for the rebound. This one I covered with my glove, stopping the play to the roar of nearly twenty-thousand Ospreys fans.

It was thunderous, a rumbling I felt in every inch of my body as I sniffed and tossed the puck to the ref. I nodded at the acknowledgements that came from my teammates, but then we were back in action.

There were only three minutes left in the game, and we were tied one to one.

I didn’t want overtime. I wanted to winnow. But it wasn’t up to me. All I could do was play my part, block every shot that came my way and pray that one of our guys could get a shot in at the other end of the ice before the final buzzer.

Our only goal tonight belonged to Vince, who had taken the lead of most goals in the league by the end of our regular season. It was only his second year playing, and if the way he was showing out was any indication, he had a long, record-breaking career ahead of him.

But he’d come up short every shot he’d taken since that first one tonight, and frustration rolled off him in plumes as I watched him send the puck toward Sacramento’s goalie. It hit him right in the middle of the chest, and Vince let out a scream, banging his stick on the ice before Jaxson was skating over to mutter something into his ear and clap him on the shoulder.

This wasn’t the time to lose our cool.

This was the time to fuckingkill.

Another minute passed with our guys scrapping it out with Sacramento’s. When Suter was tripped on his advance down the ice toward the goal, the crowd roared,and so did my teammates both on the bench and on the ice when the ref didn’t call the penalty.

I held out my gloved hands, slowly lowering them down again and again in a symbol for my team to calm.

There was still time to play.

Even through his mask, I could see Suter’s bloody grin when he looked at me. He spit on the ice, letting the refs know in a not-so-subtle way that they’d fucked up, and then he went right back to the game.