It’s not enough. Seattle breaks through all of them, crowds around the net, slashing, attacking over and over until the puck is in the net and the goal horn is blaring and Ren’s screaming at me, sounding like a crazed Baptist preacher as he condemns me to hell.
Third period.We’re down by two.
“We have a goal,” I remind myself. “It can be done. We can score.” I hold onto that last shred of hope like a drowning man.
The Orcas look like they’ve all been huffing crazy Ren’s Pixy dust. The Rhode Islanders? We’re all tired.
Everyone except for Cookie, who hasn’t fucking played.
“She gonna put him in?” Bramms hisses as we do a quick turn around the ice. “What the hell were all those therapy toys for?”
“At least they’re not throwing feminine hygiene products anymore.”
Jovi’s got a cut under his eye that’s been patched with a Hello Kitty Band-Aid from Ellie’s purse.
I can’t lose. I cannot lose.
We’re losing, though. Seattle scores a goal then another. Ren’s cursing at me with threats of the rapture as we line up for face-off.
When the Orcas winger hurtles down the ice to our collapsed defense, Ren loses it, rushing out to meet him, jamming his stick between his legs. The Orcas winger goes sprawling; Ren bats the puck to me with the huge goalie stick. Against all odds, I get it, take it up the ice, and pass to Jovi, who passes to Zayne.
The Orcas defender is on him. “He’s gonna lose it, he’s gonna lose it…” I mutter.
But Murphy’s Law just draws in the defender, pivots, and sends me a blind backhand pass, and I send it—right into the corner of the net.
“Goal!” Jovi’s screaming, jumping on me. “We’re only down by two,” he hoots.
I can’t bask in the glory of my first NHL goal, though. Have to focus. The Orcas aren’t going to let it be down by one. They send out their first line—their best players.
Zayne’s locked in, but he’s only one guy. And we just don’t have the depth of talent the Orcas have.
We’re not good enough.I’m not good enough.
I desperately chase down the puck, my lungs burning, ears ringing from Ren’s rage-filled cursing.
What the hell is in those Pixy Stix?I wonder, thoughts almost hysterical as the Orcas get another shot, only to have the puck glance off the metal bar of the net.
“Thank you, baby.” Ren kisses the net.
He turns to me. “Fuck you,” he hisses.
Ellie blows her whistle and signals to the ref. TIME-OUT blazes across the screen.
“The hell?” Bramms narrows his eyes. “Who calls a time-out? No one ever uses their time-outs.”
There’s confused murmurs from the crowd, and over in one corner of the stadium behind the glass, I can see incredulous broadcasters making jokes about needing a bathroom break.
I gulp down water as Ellie stands on the bench next to a very well-rested Cookie to address us.
“We have seven minutes left,” she says calmly. “You all can play hockey. You scored two goals. We need two more to tie the game and make it to overtime.”
“Might as well ask us to fly to the moon.” I wipe at my face.
“Zayne, do you have a feel for the game? Got your sea legs back?” Ellie says brightly as she holds up her clipboard. “Offense,” she directs. “We need full offense. Defenders, I need you guys to stay up. These are the plays we want to run. Zayne, you’re the guy who’s going to be on the lookout to set these up. Forget about everything that just happened. This is a brand-new seven minutes. You have all the time in the world. Don’t freak out. It’s hockey—it’s not nuclear engineering. Don’t overthink it.”
“Easy to say when you don’t have the Stanley Cup champions baying for your blood.”
The time-out helped reset the energy in the game. But it’s not quite enough. We still can’t get the puck up. Still can’t get it to the net, still can’t keep from losing to the Orcas.
