Two goals, four minutes. Two minutes per goal. It can happen.
I have to hand it to Ellie—when her plays work, they work.
The sixth man is just enough for us to maneuver around the defenders.
And Zayne Murphy—Murphy’s Law—he’s got a crowd of them on his flank. He fakes right, then cuts left, snow spraying and misting around him. He sinks to his knee and threads the needle—it’s a highlight-reel shot of the puck going between the legs of three defenders and lightly brushing over the goalie’s shoulder to thunk in the net.
“Murphy! Murphy!” There are some chants from the crowd. He’s been in the biz twenty years and still has fans out there.
For anyone else, it would be a career-highlight goal, but for Murphy, it’s just another Thursday.
“One more,” Jovi pants as we reset for face-off.
“One more.”
“One more. We can do it. One more.”
Emil has taken personal affront to Zayne’s goal. Zayne barely touches the puck before Emil has it ricocheting to Vidic.
He cuts around us. I block one of the forwards, forcing the winger to go around right into Zayne’s path.
He gets the puck and swings around the back of our net, up the ice.
Emil appears out of nowhere to crash right into him—it’s a legal hit; it’s just Emil is built like a truck. Zayne and Emil go sprawling on the ice. Then, in a split second, they’re back on their feet, totally focused on the puck.
Emil gets it first and doesn’t even need to collect it—he’s that good—he just makes the shot to the empty net.
We’re going to lose.
Jovi burns all engines and rushes after the puck, springs like an alley cat, and dives in front of the puck, sliding to a stop right at the red line of the net.
“Hell yeah!”
He’s panting as Ellie pulls him out, swaps him with the Finn so he can collapse on the bench.
“Can’t lose, can’t lose, can’t lose.” I’m begging the hockey gods. Though I’m on the ice with two of them, and they aren’t answering my prayer.
The clock ticks down. I can feel the loss settling deep in my gut, rotting me from the inside.
Loser, loser, loser,the ice chants as I make a desperate rush to the goal.
Vidic knocks me, gets the puck. I slash at him, and he loses control. The Finn gets the puck, but he doesn’t have the shot; he sends it back to Zayne.
Zayne can’t shoot. He’s defending against the boards as the Orcas players crowd him. Looking, looking, not surrendering. He doesn’t have any way out, and the Orcas are just running out the clock.
But Murphy’s Law prevails—if there’s even a crack in the defense, Zayne Murphy can get a puck through, and he finds me. Like magic, the puck’s there on my stick.
I don’t have a shot. Maybe if I were Zayne or Emil or, shit, even Cookie—if someone would just get that kid a couple tequila shooters or something—I could have made it. There are seconds left.
“Let’s go out with a bang.” I don’t even need the split second to aim. I already know where I’m sending the puck.
It fires off my stick, flying straight and true to its target—right on the side of Alexei Vidic’s ocean-blue helmet.
Crack!It sounds like a glacier breaking apart. Vidic grunts as the puck ricochets off his helmet…
And into the Orcas’ net.
There’s a split second of silence, and then the goal horn blares through the stadium.
