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Beck

The Stanley Cup Playoffs

G ame seven. We were tied with Tampa, the series three to three. The winner of tonight’s game would take home the Cup.

And there were twenty-three fucking seconds left on the clock.

My right wing and I were on each side of Tampa’s net, my center at the point.

Positioned.

Ready.

And we were passing the puck between us, looking for an in. Only a couple of inches would be enough, but their goalie was good, and so were their defensemen.

This was going to be hard—we knew that.

I didn’t want the game to go into overtime. We were tired. The level of play was so much more intense during the finals, and each period, although only twenty minutes long, had felt like they were double that.

But with the score two to two, we either had to make this goal, or overtime was happening.

I could hear Coach yelling from the bench. Words that triggered schematics and certain plays—things we had learned during practice when we studied Tampa’s lines and their style of attack.

Except it didn’t matter how much time I’d spent in the league, or how many shots on goal I’d taken throughout the years, or what we had covered during practice and watching film; nothing could have prepared me for a situation like this.

This was part luck, part skill, and part timing.

The puck went to my center, his arm rising, his skates pointed toward the ice to ground him, but he didn’t shoot toward the goal; he passed it to me instead.

Ten seconds.

I didn’t look up at the clock. The crowd gave me the countdown.

Time was the only thing I heard from them. Everything else—their chanting, screaming, cheering—never came close to hitting my ears.

If I shot and it was deflected or caught by the goalie, we’d lose our chance. I couldn’t take that risk. The only way the puck could get in that goal was if there was a clear opening.

And I didn’t have one.

Fuck me.

I skated toward the left, hoping the new angle would create one.

Eight seconds.

Seven.

I returned the puck to my center, who immediately directed it to my right wing. The slightest nod of his head told me his plan. He was going to fake a pass to the center, which meant it would come to me; the goalie would be too focused on the middle, and I could hook it into the corner of the net.

I just couldn’t miss.

Five seconds.

It was either now or never.

The small disk flew toward me across the ice, taking about as much time as a blink. Rather than capturing it with my stick, aiming, shooting, I met the puck as it was still in motion, repositioning my body to rear my arm back, and I connected with the bottom of the rubber.

The placement had to be just right to send it into the air. The intensity in which my stick hit it had to be perfect. The goalie had to leave the smallest hole uncovered, allowing it into the net.

So many factors.

But when they worked together, the puck would soar across the zone, through the crease, and hit the net.

Like it just did.

The puck sank into the top pocket, hitting the back of the goal and falling behind the line.

My stick lifted, my mouth opened, and I froze, waiting for the red light behind the boards to go off, for the goal horn to blow—signals that indicated the goal was fair, unless the refs challenged the play.

And then I heard it—the blow of the horn—and all I saw was a glow of red.

Then, “Goal,” screamed out of my mouth.

Not just from me.

From the crowd.

From my center and right wing, the three of us charging each other as the buzzer for the game went off. Time had run out.

We won.

We fucking won!

The entire team came out onto the ice, including Coach, the trainers, and the staff, and I was suddenly picked up by two players and held in the air while my entire team below shouted, “Beck! Beck!”

This was the first time all night that I glanced into the stands.

I saw my family’s box; everyone was in there, standing and pointing toward me, so I lifted my stick and gave them some love.

The owner’s box was center ice, and that was where I looked next.

There were several people inside, but none had the beautiful red hair I was searching for.

Since I knew she wasn’t on our bench, I turned my head toward the tunnel—an entrance covered in glass—and there she was. Arms raised high, hands clapping, with a smile on her gorgeous face.

“Put me down,” I told my teammates.

Once my skates hit the ice, I hugged the players that I passed on my way to her, and as I got closer, she opened the door to the rink, stepping over the lip on the floor, and I grabbed her, hauling her into my arms.

“Baby!” She hugged me so tightly. “Oh my God! I can’t believe it! You scored the winning goal! You won!”

My gloves and helmet were still on, but that didn’t stop me from squeezing her. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

When I pulled back, the only thing I wanted was her lips, so I removed my helmet and set it on the ice and tossed my gloves, and I put both hands on her face, her smile getting bigger as I led her toward me.

“Every camera is on us right now,” she said softly.

“Then we’d better make sure we give them a show.”

Our mouths smashed together, and I breathed her in, holding her, ravishing her lips, and when I finally separated us, I grabbed her hand. “Come on. You’re going to celebrate with the guys on the ice.”

As she walked and I skated, I lifted her hand to kiss her wrist, and something shiny on her skin caught my attention. It was like she’d rubbed lotion on the spot just below her palm. And right in the center of all that gleam was a tattoo.

A tiny, thin black B.

There was a smirk on my face when I voiced, “I thought you were one and done with tattoos? Isn’t that what you said to me?”

“That was before I met the wildest one.” She let out a small laugh.

“I love that we’re having a real moment right now.” I kissed all around the small letter. “It’s perfect.”

“You know, I’ve told you I love you a thousand times. I sometimes change up the words, or I scream them or whisper them, but ultimately, it all means the same. This is my way of showing it.”

“Baby, you have.”

To my Tampa Bay Lightning:

Don’t hate me. I’ll always be a lifelong fan.

But for The Wildest One , the Whales had to win the Cup.

XOXO,

Marni