Page 38

Crew

I was sure Kota was relieved that Lane and I were gone for the weekend for an away game.

We were playing Denver, and although Coach wasn’t as hard on us this week as he was when we played St. Cloud, he was still pretty damn harsh.

I was almost completely sure every guy had been called out at some point this week besides Lane, who Coach considered to be a saint. In Lane’s defense, it was very, very rare that he fucked up on the ice, whether that be in practice or during a game.

We were rocking an almost perfect season so far, with one loss to Minnesota Duluth, which pretty much got washed when we beat them in the second game of the weekend series.

Lane seemed to be more on edge than Coach was, although I wasn’t sure why. I had a feeling it was because he finally decided to go pro after this year, even though he should’ve done it years ago.

The entire team knew his decision now, and although everyone was extremely happy for him, it seemed like everyone was also a little bummed that we would both be leaving. No one wanted to lose their captain, and everyone understood why they were going to, but Lane was so talented that I think everyone was afraid of what the team would become without him.

Although he was young and still had a lot to learn, Keith would take my place as right-wing starter.

We still weren’t sure who would replace Lane, but everyone assumed it would be Jonah. Lane was next to impossible to replace though. And now, Lane felt this overwhelming pressure to make it Cedar’s best season ever.

My stick was already taped and resting on the rack in the corner. I had my headphones in, stretching in the locker room before we hit the ice for our actual warm up. Every few minutes, I glanced over at the rack, checking on my stick.

A lot of the guys had superstitions when it came to game days. Mine was that no one could touch my stick before a game besides me.

Everyone knew better than to break my superstition. They all stayed away from my stick game after game, but for some reason, I still felt the need to check on it.

There was one specific game back in high school that started this frantic ritual.

It was the state championship game, and my teammate, Brody, moved my stick over to grab his. At that point in time, with my stats, I averaged 1.34 goals per game. I’d been able to sink at least one goal per game ever since I was in middle school, but during this game in particular, I couldn’t sink a single one. I couldn’t even get an assist either. I played sloppy all night, and during the last minute of the game, after we had busted our balls all of third period trying to tie it up, my stick broke. And the loss of a player on the ice, even for that short amount of time, was enough to allow our opponents to score at the last minute. We lost the state championship.

Rationally speaking, there’d probably been a time before that where someone touched my stick before a game, but it was that one game alone that haunted me. On that night, the superstition was born.

I was getting into my headspace, focusing and dialing in to the game we were about to play, and the rest of the guys were doing the same. The locker room was always loud and rowdy at first, but once we got closer and closer to actual warmup, the volume always died down, because everyone was starting to focus.

We were currently ranked third in the country, the other two teams above us being teams we hadn’t played yet— Quinnipiac and University of Michigan.

Denver was currently ranked fifth, and they had a star captain of their own that we had to look out for.

It was anyone’s game.

Warmup flew by, and after Coach Palmer announced the lineup, everyone continued moving to make sure we stayed warm.

With three minutes before we hit the ice, Lane stepped forward, his silent cue that he was about to give a few words. As usual, a few of the guys sat on the bench, while others took a knee and some remained standing towards the back of the room.

There was never a time where anyone looked at or spoke to Lane with less than respect, but these were one of the many moments that we looked at him with the utmost respect possible.

Lane was the calmest person that I knew outside of the rink, but when it came moments like these, all bets were off. To outsiders, he’d sound a little overdramatic, but to us, his speeches were what we needed to light a fire under our asses. We couldn’t help but get pulled in by his essence.

Standing with his helmet resting on his hip, Lane let out a long breath before beginning to slowly walk side to side, head down as he spoke. “Third,” he announced. “Third in the nation, and we’re halfway through the season. Our schedule isn’t getting easier, but we are getting better.” With a pause, he looked up. “Denver’s good, and I have a feeling this won’t be an easy game, but we have sixty minutes to go out there and beat them on their own turf. Every drop of sweat, every sore muscle, every hit, every goal, every single thing... from this past week and this season so far has led us to this upcoming sixty minutes. It all comes down to the current sixty.” His eyes scanned over every face in the room, hovering over mine for a second longer than everyone else. “Got it?”

“Got it, Captain!”

He flaunted a proud smile. “Good,” he said. “Now let’s win this fucking game.”

***

We absolutely dominated in the first period, making the score 2-0 right off the bat. The first goal was scored by Lane and the second was scored by Jett, with an assist from Lane. Go figure.

I wasn’t sure where our energy or our heads were at in the second period, because we fell flat, allowing Denver to catch up and tie it.

Lane wasn’t happy at the end of the second. He’d practically set up shot after shot for each of us and we missed every one.

But him being him, he didn’t say anything. He just choked down his frustration and put his game face back on.

Coach barely said anything either, quickly pointing out our biggest mistakes before letting us be. He knew what kind of players we were. We didn’t need to be screamed at in order to play harder, better.

The locker room was quiet, even quieter than it had been before the game started. Everyone was focused, staying warm, talking themselves through what needed to be done during this next period.

And when we got back out on the ice, the focus didn’t cease in the slightest.

Repeatedly, Lane was getting double teamed, sometimes even triple teamed, stuck against the boards in the corner of the arena with the puck as Denver tried their best to contain him.

Even though there were a few times where they succeeded in snatching the puck from him, most of the time, Lane was able to fight his way out and send the puck off to Jett or me immediately to keep the red jersey pricks at bay.

There was a scoring drought for the first sixteen minutes of the last period. After a lot of close goals but no sound of the buzzer, I could tell we were losing it a bit. Our stamina was wearing thin, and every time I collapsed on the bench between line changes, I found myself not itching to be back on the ice. I would’ve been perfectly fine taking a nap on the sidelines. I wasn’t sure if it was from playing on level ten for the first forty, or if it was the monstrous hits I took, but either way, I was feeling the exhaustion seeping into my bones.

I refused to show it though.

Squeezing my water bottle, a stream of water shot through my cage and into my mouth. The arena was freezing, and my water was ice cold, but I currently felt like a furnace sitting on full blast in the middle of the Sahara Desert, so the frigid water seemed like the best thing to ever happen to me.

Heaving, I dropped my head back, hoping I didn’t miss anything important in the game.

When I straightened, I saw my line hopping onto the ice one by one. Letting out a small groan, I followed, determined to end this game now.

No fucking way did I want to head into OT.

We had four minutes left to clinch the win.

Denver’s captain, Hodges, had been hogging the puck all night, so it wasn’t difficult to pinpoint where the puck would be when it was in Denver’s control.

That was another thing that made Lane an incredible captain— he was selfless.

As long as the puck went into the goal, he didn’t give a fuck whose stick was shooting it in.

I kept my eye on the puck, using my peripherals to gauge my surroundings. Charging full force, I rammed into Hodges with a clean hit, knocking him off track with just enough time to seize the puck for a steal.

A sea of silver jerseys flocked to the opposite side of the ice when they realized the puck was currently mine. Finding Jett as he zigzagged through a trio of raging red players, I passed him the puck and he flew off, setting up shop on the left.

It was a play that Lane, Jett, and I had done dozens of times, both during practices and during games.

Lane positioned himself in the center with me on the right, and Jett wasted no time sending the puck to Lane who sent it to me.

The second it touched my stick, it was gone again, sailing over to Jett. I didn’t even have time to blink before the puck was in Lane’s possession for half a second, hurdling through red skates and sticks to make itself home in the net.

The buzzer screeched, and our whole line met Lane on center ice for a group hug.

With two minutes left in the game, half of it was on the bench and the other half was on the ice, holding off Denver to add another win to our belt for the season.