Page 52

CHAPTER 51

ALEXEI

The buzz starts immediately. Is Makinen going to start game six? He’s healthy again. I just got lit up in a must-win game.

It’s only natural for people to ask if it’s time to switch goalies after that bad loss.

But our coaches don’t.

At practice the next day, I’m in the starter’s net. At morning skate on game day, I’m the first one called off the ice.

Hale follows me off the ice. “Let’s go, Arty. We’ve got a game tonight.”

* * *

Ty scores a minute and a half into the game, a beauty of a shot. The crowd explodes. But there’s barely any time to celebrate.

Miami comes right back down the ice and I do that same stupid save again. I know it’s a mistake as I’m going for the puck. I’m way too aggressive, and their video staff clearly did their job, identifying my weakness.

“Stupid fucking mistake,” I snarl at my goalposts as the forwards line up at centre ice again.

The posts are quiet, too quiet. As if they’re saying, this is on you to fix .

I look to the bench for a gut check. Makie’s there. Coach could put him in.

But neither of them are looking my way.

I’m not getting saved here. This is my game to win for my team, I have to be better than that. And somewhere in New York, Emery is watching me, and I sure as fuck have to be better for her. I have to be better for Inessa, too. When she’s older, she’s going to be told over and over and over again how this game goes. Her dad’s first playoff series. I want her to be proud of what she hears.

But most of all, my team in front of me—and my fucking self—deserves a win tonight.

We didn’t go up three games in a series just for me to develop a case of the fucking yips.

I square my neck and hunker down, and I save every fucking puck that comes my way. Twenty-six of them by the end of the second period, an insane volley of shots.

And then, with three seconds to go before everyone gets a chance to catch their breath, Ty gets his stick tangled up with one of his former teammates, and it slices up and under the guy’s visor.

A double minor penalty.

We’ll start the third period on the penalty kill.

* * *

In the dressing room, we re-hydrate. We get refreshed. I put on a new undershirt and take a piss.

But it’s not like any other intermission break. We are one period away from winning a play-off series.

And my teammates? They aren’t fucking scared of being on the PK. They’re hyped. Marsh draws up plays on the white board. Coach comes in, sees what we’re doing, and just lets us cook.

Everyone is dialled in.

And then it’s time to get dressed again, and get back out there.

* * *

They win the draw and get set up. Their centre falls back, looking for some space, and then powers up, suddenly gaining too much speed. And from where I can see the play, I know he’s going to break through and get a shot.

I’m patient. I wait for it.

Don’t read too much, just keep your eyes on the puck.

I catch it, a satisfying thump in my glove, and flick it away. Keep the momentum, keep the kill going.

They get another zone entry, there’s another fast press, and again we hold them off. This time they don’t even get a clean shot.

They fall back and do a line change. I don’t have to look up at the display board to know we’re nearing the two minute mark.

Their second penalty kill team isn’t on for that long, maybe forty-five seconds, and then the first team comes back. We must be rounding the third minute.

And I start to think they’re not going to get set up to do a third zone entry. I can feel the penalty kill ticking down, but then suddenly there’s one last blast of energy, and there’s a player in front of me.

Fuck.

I shove him aside, keeping my line of vision clear, and I plant my skate against the post. Stacked. Ready.

The puck snaps off a stick and zooms through the air. High. It’s high. Shoulder maybe. Higher. Fuck.

I get my glove up.

Snap.

I’ve got it, I know I’ve got it, but there’s no whistle, and then bodies are piling on top of me.

“It’s in my fucking glove, right?” I scream the question. “I have it. Get the fuck off me.”

I try to get my blocker up, using it to push with all my strength, and then the whistle finally comes.

But the pushing and shoving doesn’t stop, even after I’m clear of the pile-up. Smash does his thing, flinging off his gloves and gesturing come here at one of the Miami bruisers, a big Russian guy named Petrov. Rusty grabs another one of their players, someone who is chewing on his mouthguard.

The last thing I see before I shove off the post and slide out of the melee is Armstrong shoving that guy in the chest, then snatching the mouthguard away.

I think that’s the moment I know we’re going to win. The little squeak of indignation I hear before I float out of the mess, taking the brawl as a nice stretch break, over in the corner by myself.

Fans scream and pound on the glass.

I roll my shoulders and look up at the scoreboard.

The penalty is over. We killed it off, but with all the bodies being pushed toward the box by the refs, maybe a new one is about to begin.

I drag a deep breath into my lungs, then glide back to my net.

Let’s fucking go. I’m ready.

* * *

In the end, once the penalties are read out by the ref, the forwards line up even strength for the drop, but four on four.

And then Calhoun scores.

For thirty seconds, Miami has a one-man advantage, but that means nothing to Hiro Watanabe, who tricks them into turning over the puck and scores short-handed for us.

After that, I don’t see a single shot for most of the period. I have the best seat in the house for the most magnificent hockey I have ever seen played in front of me.

Haler scores. Connor scores.

The game is out of reach, but they still pull their goalie and now it’s six on five, and then we called on a tripping that maybe wouldn’t be called, except we’re up six to two. And so now it’s six attackers against four defense, and we’re on the penalty kill, but there’s only so many block shots that my teammates can take before the shots start coming at me. There’s only a minute and a half left in the game, and I’m blocking shots and every time I get my glove on it, I have to put it down and stop it.

Which means there’s face-off after face-off, ten feet away from me.

Miami is winning a lot of those draws, and each draw feels like a guaranteed shot to stop.

Glove.

Blocker.

Butterfly down. Knob up.

Until suddenly, the place slows down and the arena starts cheering.

High-land-ers, High-land-ers, High-land-ers

The horn goes.

We won.

We fucking won.

We’re moving on to…

“Round fucking two,” I scream, taking off for centre ice, throwing my hands in the air. “Round fucking two.”

Dodaj is the first person to slam into me. Then Hale and Hooner.

Armstrong giving me a fucking bear hug.

Every single guy pours off the bench.

We’re laughing and we’re crying.

We line up for the post-series handshake with the other team.

Hale first, Connor second, because he spent a decade playing with a lot of those guys that we just beat.

I take up the rear.

It’s the most surreal feeling. I’m tingling. The closest thing I’ve felt to this is holding Inessa for the first time. Like it’s an incredible but mostly out-of-body experience.

Suddenly Petrov, the big Russian guy, is in front of me. He clamps his big hand on my shoulder and he says, in Russian, “You’re a fucking legend, kid, you’re a legend. Enjoy this run. It’s gonna be the first of many for you.”

“Thank you, my brother,” I manage to say back.

He claps my helmet, then moves past me.

I shake hands with their goalie, then their coach, before the Miami team leaves the ice and we’re alone at centre ice.

Someone from the team hands me my stick, which I left at my net.

We all raise our sticks in the air, recognizing the fans who are still on their feet. Our fans. Our home barn.

There are so many red and black jerseys in the house, it looks like a sea of Buffalo plaid. Like the Glengarry dicing our mascot wears.

And then one fan pops out of the crowd. Her jersey is a custom chef’s jacket, and she’s pressed up against the glass, a thousand kilowatt smile just for me.