A knock on my door pulls me from my thoughts.
“Time to head out,” someone calls out.
I grab my gear and head out.
The game is brutal.
Tampa comes out trying to intimidate us from the first puck drop. But we match their intensity, trading hits and chances, both teams desperate to take control of the series.
I'm on the ice for the first goal. Jake's shot from the point that deflects off my stick and past their goalie. The arena erupts in boos, but I don't care. We're up 1-0.
Second period, Tampa ties it. Then goes up 2-1. The pressure mounts with every shift. Third period is chaos. Cole ties it at 2-2 with seven minutes left. The crowd is deafening now, the energy in the arena hostile.
With two minutes remaining, I get the puck in the neutral zone. Jake streaks down the right wing, and I see the opening. A perfect pass that hits him in stride. He shoots and scores.
3-2. We're up with less than two minutes left.
Tampa pulls their goalie for an extra attacker, throwing everything they have at us. Logan makes three incredible saves in the final minute, and when the buzzer sounds, we've won.
We're two games closer to the Finals.
The locker room is wild after the game.
“Ottawa next,” Ryan shouts over the noise. “Then Detroit. Two more wins and we're in the fucking Finals!”
He's right. The path is clear now. Beat Ottawa in game six, then Detroit in game seven. Two wins. That's all that stands between us and the Stanley Cup Finals.
It should be exciting and the culmination of everything we've worked for all season.
But all I feel is restless and agitated. Like there's something crawling under my skin that I can't shake.
“We're hitting the clubs,” Logan announces. “Celebration time. Who's in?”
“I'm in,” Jake says immediately.
“Me too,” Ryan adds.
Eyes turn to me. I never go out anymore. Everyone knows I've changed, that I stay in now, that the party boy reputation is dead.
“Nova's probably calling his girlfriend,” someone teases.
“Or going home to his puppies,” another adds with a laugh.
The comments are good-natured, but they hit a raw nerve. “Fuck it. I'm in.”
“Hell yeah.” Logan claps me on the shoulder. “Nova's back.”
The phrase makes my stomach twist, but I ignore it. I just need to blow off some steam. A few drinks with the guys. Nothing crazy.
Just one night to feel like myself again.
The club is loud and packed, exactly the kind of place I used to love. The music is pounding, and there are bodies everywhere.
We claim a VIP section, and drinks start flowing immediately.
“To the Finals.” Jake raises his glass.
“To the Finals,” we chorus back, and I throw back my shot.
