My song.
Ever since I was a kid, I daydreamed of this being my walk-off song when I played in the NHL.
The bass drops. The plexiglass almost shatters as the first of our team steps onto the ice, powerful, invincible. I bribed Ellie’s cousin who works the sound system to turn the bass way the fuck up, and the beat of the rap song makes the jumbotrons shake.
I can feel it pumping in time to my heart. Can’t even make out the words to the song—it’s just that unrelenting beat.
It’s even better than I imagined when I was in high school, daydreaming about this moment.
And when the announcer goes, “Your alternate captain, Fletcher Sullivan,” and my name and picture flash on the shaking jumbotron, the crowd goes fucking wild.
I light up the ice, making a powerful lap around to the screams of the crowd, all in my team’s colors.
“Fuck yeah. We play for the fucking NHL!” Bramms screams at me over the eardrum-bursting music.
Ellie’s laughing, her hand clapped to her chest, watching me. I wink at her and line up for the national anthem.
Then we slaughter the other team. We’re all locked in together. It’s the best we ever played. The second the buzzer sounds, we’re all over the puck. The energy is unreal.
Ellie’s plays flow off our sticks effortlessly.
The Finn sinks a nasty goal before the other team even knows where the puck is. Jovi executes a no-look backhand pass to Zayne, and he makes one of those impossible shots that’s going to make the highlight reel. The other team tries to rally, but Bramms checks a guy so hard the crowd audibly groans.
And me?
I dominate the boards, I wreck their top scorer, and when I score in the second period—my second goal of the night—I don’t even celly. I just point my stick at Ellie. I’m getting laid tonight, if I don’t die of adrenaline rush first.
Cookie is the ringer. He waits like a bird dog for Ellie’s signal, then he zips onto the ice, knifing through guys, taking the quick-release puck Zayne shoots in a pocket for him, then goal!
Ellie got the little fucker to go in every period and score. He even went in twice in the third period, which earns him a hug and a kiss on his helmet from Ellie while the crowd chants, “Let him cook!”
It’s a shutout. We win six to nothing and pile onto Ren at the end of the match while the home-game crowd roars their approval.
“Fuck, I love hockey!”
“Goddamn it, Yankee, I do believe you might be able to play the game of your Northern people after all.” Ren grins his gummy smile at me.
“Cookie! Cookie!” The crowd throws hats on the ice, and we gather them up, piling them on the kid’s head.
“So proud of you.” Zayne cups his face, giving him a rough shake.
“Let’s go eat some fucking pizza Lunchables!” Jonesy whoops, jumping on my shoulders as we troop victorious down the tunnel to the locker room.
“You won!” Ellie’s ecstatic. “Beautiful goal, Fletcher.” She praises all the players. “Zayne, of course, setting up plays like a master, and Cookie, who got on the ice four times today.”
“It’s gotta be some sort of record,” I say. “I mean, total, he was on the ice what, two minutes, and scored four goals?”
“Insanity.”
“We won! We won!” we chant as Ellie passes out the little plastic squares of processed bread, meat, and cheese.
Cookie intently measures out his sauce, cheese, and cold pepperoni on the little round flatbreads.
The Finn looks absolutely revolted and refuses to touch it.
“Can I have yours?” The rookies pester him.
“Ziggy, tell him he’s insulting our culture.” I grin around my own pizza Lunchable. I toss the little candy bar that comes with it to Cookie.
