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“Come on, come on, come on,” I repeat to myself under my goalie mask, jaw set tight and eyes narrow, locked on the action taking place on the other side of the rink.
We’re at St. Michaels University for our first regular season game. My first real game as a Brumehill Black Bear. It’s the third period, and the game is tied up 1-1.
The game’s been a grinder. St. Michaels decided to play rough tonight, and we’ve been dancing to their tune. Both our teams have contributed to keeping the sin bin bench awfully warm.
The second period ended with St. Michaels sneaking in a wrap-around goal to tie the game. Did it suck to let our opponent stake their first claim to the scoreboard? Yes. Did I kick myself a little, like I always have and always will do whenever I let a puck into the net? Yeah.
But did I feel like the world was ending? Like I’d proven myself to be totally worthless? Like I felt when I lost focus for a moment and let New Hampshire score on me in that preseason game a couple weeks ago?
Surprisingly, I didn’t.
After I kissed Summer on the ice, my mind felt like a closet so jumbled and disorganized that a pile of junk would fall out of it if you opened the door. Nothing felt firm, stable—I didn’t know up from fucking down.
But after I slept with her Thursday night, it hasn’t been like that at all. It’s like something clicked into place. I feel like I’m on solid ground mentally.
We still haven’t talked about what it means for us. Both of us were too busy the day after, me getting ready for the game I’m playing right now and her preparing for her Mozart competition tomorrow night. But I’m not worried. Not anxious. And not distracted.
Next time I see her, I’m going to gather her up in my arms and kiss her. Congratulate her on her win, too, because I can feel in my bones that it’s going to happen. I’m not thinking about what that means for us long term. I’m just looking forward to it. For the first time in my life, I’m not overthinking. I’m just feeling.
Being with Summer feels right, a kind of right that I’ve never felt about anything else before. Not even hockey. Just a couple weeks ago, that realization would make me panic. Now? It makes me excited.
There’s a battle raging behind St. Michaels’ net. I’m still poised and ready to react, though, because I know that puck could be right in front of me in a matter of seconds. For some reason, our defense is soft tonight, neither Lane nor Rhys playing at their best. I’ve been getting hammered all night.
I narrow my eyes to try to make out what’s going on all the way down there, but it’s no use. There’s just a mass of bodies jockeying for position and sticks clattering together.
Suddenly, excitement pulses through me as Tuck makes a lightning quick move. The buzzer blaring through the air confirms that he just repaid St. Michaels by sliding in a wraparound goal of his own.
“Fuck yes, Tuck!” I yell out from the crease, even though there’s no way he can hear me over the boos and groans from the crowd.
We’re up 2-1, but I damn sure can’t rest easy. Especially not after Marcus Edwins trips Lane with his stick and doesn’t get called for it. The refs might have been willing to let him get away with it, but Rhys sure as hell isn’t, ripping off his gloves and throwing down with Edwins, earning himself another visit to the penalty box.
With one of our two defensemen out of the game, St. Michaels comes at my net hard with a power play.
I’m dialed in, hyper-aware of the location of the puck and the position of the players. I block shot after shot, losing track of how much time is left on the clock and praying that I’ll be saved by the buzzer. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out, and St. Michaels is so on-point right now that I doubt we’ll be able to snag the puck back.
After fending off a wrap-around attempt and a brutal slap shot, the end of game buzzer goes off, and I let myself breathe.
We escaped with the win, 2-1. A win we sure as hell earned.
In the back, I feel different than I’ve ever felt after a win. Normally, even after the biggest wins of my career, I’d maybe let myself feel a mellow satisfaction, but it would be buried underneath an anxious focus on the next game. Maybe I’d let myself acknowledge a better than average performance, but I’d never let myself celebrate. I’d sure as hell never let myself cut loose and revel like so many of my teammates would.
Tonight? Yeah, I’m fucking reveling.
When Tuck goes for a body check, I meet him, bouncing my chest off his with a big smile on my face. When Lane slaps me on the back and congratulates me for fending off the power play at the end of the game, I let myself take the compliment. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I’d let one score past me that I shouldn’t have.
Ever since Thursday night, Summer’s been in the back of my mind. Except for when she’s been in the front of it. Even during tonight’s game, memories of how she felt and the anticipation of seeing her again lingered.
That didn’t stop me from performing. Didn’t stop me from playing a great game. Didn’t stop us from winning.
Maybe I don’t have to choose between Summer and hockey. Maybe I can have both.
The celebration pauses when Coach Torres steps into the locker room and clears his throat. Jack Torres, legendary NHL Center and veteran Brumehill coach who’s turned down more than one big-money coaching offer from NHL teams, commands so much respect that if he as much as snapped his fingers, it would silence every pair of lips in this locker room and send every pair of eyes darting in his direction.
“Hell of a game tonight, men,” he begins, drawing a smattering of low, excited chatter before Coach silences it again by raising his hand. “I could go ahead and do my usual post-game spiel. The good one I use after a victory, not the one after a loss where I ream your asses out.” That draws a laugh from the guys, and to my own surprise, my own lips are curled, and my own chest is rumbling with a chuckle as well. “But I’m old and I’ve done it so damn many times I’m tired of it. How about we hear from your captain instead?”
Rhys whoops, the rest of the guys calling out encouraging words to Lane, who straightens up next to Coach, looking like a General addressing his soldiers.
Lane clears his throat, puffing out his chest. “You guys know I’m not a man of few words,” he starts.
