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FORTY-FIVE

Jethro

We manage to win the first Edmonton game during overtime, but we don’t make it look easy. Hessler—a solid defenseman—tweaks his ACL. Newgate struggles.

And Clay? He looks like death, his face pale and clammy. It’s a migraine for sure.

I want to text him and check in, but I’m not a hypocrite. I can’t tell him to treat me like any other player and then coddle him.

On our day off, I do a lengthy practice with Demski and a heavy workout, but when Clay announces the starting lineup for game two, I’m not on it.

It’s a blow, but if I were him, I’d probably play Volkov again, too. It sends the right message to Edmonton. We figured out how to beat you and we’re going to do it again .

Unfortunately, we drop game two, and so I’m on for games three and four, where we split the results.

I’m on the bench for game five, and we win, but not decisively. Volkov struggles, missing a second-period shot that my dad could have stopped.

At least that’s what my dad says when he bitches about it afterward.

We fly back to Canada for game six, and when the starting lineup comes out, Volkov’s name is on that one, too. My first reaction is wanting to punch something. Since I’m a professional, I don’t.

The bench it is. At least I have a good seat for the game. And it’s hairy from the first drop. Edmonton comes out swinging, desperate to stay alive in the series. They score within the first two minutes, catching Volkov off guard with a quick wrist shot from the slot.

The hometown crowd roars, and the tension on our bench ratchets up several notches. That goal wasn’t supposed to happen.

After the face-off, our guys fight back. We answer the goal at the ten-minute mark. But on the other end of the ice, it’s clear to me that something’s off with Volkov. His body language is stiff. He makes a few good saves, but he’s fighting the puck on every shot. I watch him grimace as he gets up after a particularly awkward stretch to make a glove save.

“You seeing this?” Stoney mutters from beside me on the bench.

I nod, my eyes never leaving the ice. “Yeah. He doesn’t look right.”

Edmonton scores again late in the first period. This time it’s a soft goal, one Volkov should stop easily but doesn’t. He fishes the puck out of the net, frustration etching his face.

During the intermission, the locker room is tense. Clay gives a pep talk, but he glances over at Volkov with concern. Our starting goalie is sitting quietly in his stall, rolling his shoulders.

The second period gets off to a great start when Newgate puts up a goal. But things go sideways when Edmonton scores twice more in quick succession. Volkov is clearly struggling, his movements more labored with each passing play. After the fourth goal, Clay catches my eye and gives me a slight nod.

“Hale,” he calls out. “Start stretching. You’re going in at the next break in play.

Every head on the bench turns in my direction. And it’s almost like the loud soundtrack of the arena dims for me. I’m going in, and I’m going to stop the bleeding on this shit show.

The TV timeout arrives, and as I strap on my mask and grab my stick, Clay gives me a pat on the shoulder. “Lock it down,” he says, his voice low and intense.

But I don’t need any encouragement. After fifteen years of professional hockey, I know just what to do.

I skate out onto the ice, tapping the posts as I settle into the crease. The opposing team is all smiles.

Yeah, yeah. Doubters .

The puck drops, and it’s on. Edmonton steals the puck on the first face-off and proceeds to test me early, peppering me with shots. But I’m ready. I make a flashy glove save on a breakaway attempt, and I can feel the game’s energy shift.

“You want more of this?” I taunt Edmonton’s captain as he skates by. I remember when he was a rookie during my fifth season.

Midway through the third period, we’re still down 4-2, but my defensemen seem to feed off my attitude. Their play becomes sharper, more focused. Edmonton’s captain trips Stoney and gets called for it, so we get a power play.

And boom . Kapski scores. The Edmonton fans groan. It’s 4-3, and every player hunkers down for a battle. No one is going to back down. The players get chippy and the elbows fly.

With two minutes left in the game, the speed of play accelerates to a screaming blur. Edmonton is on their heels, desperately trying to get the puck back. They ice it on a poke check, giving us an offensive zone face-off. Clay calls a timeout, gathering the team around him.

“Alright, boys,” he says, his eyes blazing with intensity. “This is our moment. We won back our chance. Let’s not waste it.”

As the puck drops, time seems to slow down. Kapski wins the draw cleanly, getting the puck back to DiCosta at the point. He fires a rocket through traffic. I hold my breath as I watch it sail towards the net, deflecting off Stoney’s stick and past Edmonton’s goalie.

Our bench explodes. We’ve tied it up with less than a minute to go.

Sweat’s dripping into my eyes, but I’m jazzed for the overtime period. After the break, both teams stay scrappy, but neither can find the back of the net. Then, five minutes in, Newgate intercepts a pass at our blue line and takes off. He’s got a step on the defenseman. I lean forward, my heart in my throat.

Newgate dekes, the Edmonton goalie bites, and suddenly the puck is sliding into an open net. My team goes absolutely berserk.

We’ve done it. We’re moving on to the final.

There you go, Clay. I look for his cleanly shaven face among the playoff beards, as my teammates pour onto the ice in celebration. As I join the pile at center ice, I catch Clay’s eye.

He’s grinning from ear to ear.