Fletcher bounces back up, ignoring the blood streaming down his face. “You!” He muscles through the Boston players, not even registering when they hit him. He gets up in Eddie’s face. “You touch any of my teammates or say a goddamn thing about my fucking girlfriend again, and I will kill you. Because guess what?” He gives a mean, bloody smile. “You’re right. I’m not an NHL player. I’m a goddamn Marine.”
“Hey!” Harlowe nudges me. “You’re not single anymore! And you thought he didn’t care.”
The ref shoves Fletcher, bleeding and bruised but unapologetic, into the penalty box. Cookie is helped to the bench. He plops down next to Braxton, who is playing his video game.
Granny Murray starts measuring out vodka for Cookie.
“Gran, he can’t have that. He’s a child.”
“He’s eighteen. He’s a grown man.”
Cookie slugs it back then immediately throws up.
There are two minutes left on the clock. The game is tied.
The Boston team is on the power play.
With Fletcher out and Cookie out, we’re down a man because of the penalty. I swap out to more defensive players, but it’s not enough. The Harbor Hawks use the advantage to knife through our line and score on a furious Ren.
The game is tied again.
“We can take them in overtime. Maybe.” I can’t put Cookie back in, though. I’m worried about his leg.
In the penalty box, Fletcher is breathing hard, furious eyes locked on the play, breathing fog and flecks of blood against the glass.
Forty-five seconds to go.
“Go,” I tell Zayne. He jumps over, swapping out with Bramms.
Fletcher readies for the penalty minutes to countdown, up on the balls of his feet, stick raised.
As soon as the ref opens the door, he shoots down the ice.
Zayne already has the shot set up, and the puck hits Fletcher’s stick. He quick-releases it, textbook, through the defenders into the corner of the net.
“Goal!”
“We win! We won!” I scream.
“We’re staying!” Cookie cries.
I hug him.
The players in the box jump over the boards. The Finn politely helps me over to join the crush of players in the middle of the ice as we cheer, throwing gloves and sticks and mouthguards in the air.
“We’re staying!”
“We survived!”
I jump into the fray, breathless, laughing, hugging any player I can get my hands on. “Rhode Islanders for life!” Jonesy hollers. We celebrate like we just won Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals, screaming and rolling around on the ice while everyone looks on like we’re insane.
Then suddenly—he’s there.
Fletcher. Standing in front of me in the center of the ice, breathing hard, bloody from the fight. And the stadium, the noise, the chaos—all of it falls away.
“You won,” I whisper, a little breathless, trying not to cry.
He doesn’t even look at the crowd. His eyes are locked on mine, soft now in a way I’ve never seen on the ice. “You won,” he says simply.
