“I see him.”
“He looks good in the away jersey.”
“He looks good in everything,” I say.
“And nothing, I imagine,” Avery says.
We all laugh.
Natalie leans across. “How are you handling it? Being here for his game in another city?”
“I'm nervous. More nervous than when I watch at MSG.”
“It's different on the road,” Harper says. “At home, you feel like the building is on your side. Here you're in enemy territory. Every hit on your guy feels harder because twenty thousand people are cheering for it.”
The puck drops, and the nervousness turns into adrenaline. The Wailers come out fast, pressing hard in the Renegades' zone for the first two minutes. Logan is on the ice for the opening shift, matched up against Toronto's top line.
Their left winger is quick and cuts inside on the first zone entry. Logan reads it, steps up, and angles him to the boards. Clean, physical, decisive. The crowd boos.
“That's my man,” I say under my breath. Avery hears me and squeezes my arm.
The first period is tight. Both teams are careful, trading chances without converting. Cole draws a penalty late in the period and the Renegades power play goes to work.
Liam sets up at the top of the circle and one-times a pass from Jake. The puck beats the Toronto goalie glove side. 1-0 Renegades. Our section of four erupts while twenty thousand Wailers fans groan.
Between periods, Harper goes for drinks and comes back with four beers and a bag of popcorn. “The bartender looked at my Renegades scarf and gave me less popcorn,” she says.
Second period, the Wailers push back hard. They tie it up on a power play goal that deflects off Blake's stick. The arena explodes. Logan is on the ice for the goal, and his shoulders tighten as he skates back to the bench. I recognize the posture. He's blaming himself for the screen.
Three minutes later, Logan makes up for it. He jumps into the rush, takes a pass from Cole at the blue line, and fires a wrist shot through traffic. The puck hits the back of the net before the goalie moves. 2-1 Renegades.
Logan pumps his fist once and skates back to the bench. Liam jumps off the bench and grabs his helmet with both hands.
I'm on my feet screaming. So are all the girls. The Wailers fans around us are glaring. I don't care.
Third period is a battle. Toronto throws everything at the Renegades. Shots from every angle. Bodies crashing into the boards. Logan is on the ice for most of it, killing penalties, blocking shots, grinding through every shift.
He takes a cross-check to the back behind the play that makes me flinch. The ref doesn't call it. Logan doesn't react and just keeps playing.
Jake scores an empty-netter with a minute left to seal it. 3-1 Renegades. The buzzer sounds, and the boys pile together at center ice. The Toronto crowd files out in silence. Our little section of four is on its feet, cheering and hugging each other.
“Road win,” Harper says. “Those are the sweetest.”
After the game, we take a cab to a bar in the King West neighborhood that Cole recommended. It's an upscale spot with dark leather booths and a long bar lit from underneath in blue.
The music is low enough to talk over, and the crowd is well-dressed and buzzing with Friday night energy.
We get a booth near the back and order a round of cocktails. The plan is to wait for the guys to shower and change and meet us here. Natalie orders a plate of fries for the table.
“How long until they get here?” I ask.
“Thirty minutes,” Harper says. “Cole says they're finishing with media.”
We eat fries, drink cocktails, and recap the game. Natalie breaks down Logan's goal in technical detail, which impresses me.
“How do you know so much about hockey?” I ask her.
“I'm a physical therapist for a hockey team. I've watched more game film than most of the coaches.”
