Cookie covers his face with his towel.
I steady myself and prepare to keep my tone neutral but positive, trying not to look at the clock as it ticks down, down. We cannot go to a shoot-out, because we will lose. The Orcas shooters are stacked. I resist the urge to shake Cookie and scream at him. That won’t help.
He’s having a hard time; he’s not giving you a hard time.
“I really want to see you play, Cookie.” I pet his helmet. “Just try. You don’t have to score, just try.”
“I can’t,” he says in a small voice. “I messed up the last time, and everyone was mad at me. I can’t do it.”
“Mistakes happen. We try, try again.”
“I can’t.” He looks like he’s about to cry.
Fletcher whizzes by. I can hear him gasping for breath.
Cookie wants to play. I see it in his eyes. When he’s on the ice, he loves hockey. He just needs a final push.
I dig through my proverbial bag of tricks from my time in the daycare trenches. “If you play…” I begin.
Cookie starts to perk up.
What to give him?
Fletcher whizzes by. “Put him in, fucking—oof!”
Fletcher gets creamed, goes sliding across the ice to crash into the boards as an Orcas player speed-runs the puck to the net. Ren barely keeps the puck out of the goal using his skate.
We can’t lose. My whole family is here. There are twenty-five thousand people watching me, plus another what, million on TV? I’m wearing a pink suit. They played the Barbie song and threw tampons at my players.
“I’ll give you… a surprise, Cookie, if you get me a goal.”
“What kind of a surprise?” I’ve got his attention now.
“A surprise…” I roll my hands, grasping for straws as on the ice, my team collapses. “A surprise you pick from the surprise bag!”
“The surprise bag! Okay!” Cookie hops over the boards as Fletcher drags his bruised body toward us. I grab the back of his jersey, hauling him into the box before we get a penalty for having too many players on the ice.
“Holy shit.” He half rests against me. His lip is split, and he’s holding his side. He’s sweaty and panting, but there’s wonder in his eyes as Cookie flies across the ice. “Fuck.” He coughs. “I can’t believe you did it.”
“We have thirty seconds. It’s too late.” Eddie points to the clock.
I’m biting my nails. But I hide my hands when I see myself on the jumbotron.
Thirty seconds is all we need. All Zayne Murphy needs, anyway.
As if he’s got a sixth sense, the veteran player crashes into Emil, knocking him off the puck just enough for Zayne to send a blind backhand pass hurtling to our net.
“What the hell is he doing?” Eddie yells. “He’s gonna score an own goal!”
I don’t even have to hear Ren to know he’s cursing as the puck hurtles towards him, the Orcas forwards too startled by Zayne’s hit to react. Zayne has a knowing smirk on his face.
“Oh my god,” Fletcher breathes. “He’s the god of fucking hockey.”
Because Zayne knows that it’s not a pass to nowhere.
Cookie zips around the net and darts in front of Ren, the puck glued to his stick.
The Orcas forwards seem shocked to see him, but then he’s gone, dancing across the ice like one of those cartoon mice in a Disney movie. He crosses the blue line, dodging defenders like they’re skating in slow motion.
