“Let’s fucking do this, boys,” Hugsy says, a savage grin tugging at his lips.
“Number three, we got this,” Nick returns. He looks over his shoulder for Duke and Howie, whistling to beckon them over. Howie’s in a suit and crutches, but there was no way he was missing this to sit in the stands. He’s still a member of the team.
“Original five, baby,” Nick crows, beaming at all of them. “Ready to add a little more silverware to your shelves?”
“You know it, Cap.” Duke smirks at him, mouthguard dangling from the corner of his lips.
Tony and Jazz appear in the doorway, and the room falls silent.
Stepping forward, Tony clears his throat, looking stern. “Gentlemen,” he begins, “you’ve worked long and hard to get here. And there’s absolutely jack shit I can tell you now that will change anything that’s about to happen out there.” He claps his hands together, nodding decisively. “You all know your jobs. Now get out there and do ’em!”
Hugsy whoops loudly, setting off the rest of the team. Nick joins in, pumping his fist in the air, letting the adrenaline overtake him.
They’re ready for this.
When they skate out for warm-ups, the atmosphere iselectric. Nick can’t hear his own thoughts for the wall of sound the crowd has become—red and silver sparkles from every corner of the stands. There are a few brave souls in Comets jerseys, but it’s an overwhelmingly home crowd tonight, and Nick’s blood pumps all the faster for it.
Nick knows what to expect, when the anthem starts up, but it still takes him by surprise to hear Matt’s husky voice ring through the arena speakers—a decision that was only finalized a couple days ago. Pride swells in him like a balloon, and for the first time in his career he’s perfectly still through the whole rendition, listening to the voice of an angel.
With a start like that, how could they possibly lose?
The thing about playing game seven of a cup final, is that both teams know there’s nothing after this. No further games they need to keep themselves healthy for, no upcoming rounds. This is it. The final hour.
It’s kind of a bloodbath.
Literally. They’re only in the second period and Nick’s already had to change out of a bloodied jersey once, his cheek puffy from where he went face-first into someone’s shoulder.
But he’s fine. It’s just a cut. So the Comets jeer about scuffing up his pretty face, and Nick taunts them for still being uglier than he is, and the next thing he knows there’s dropped gloves and Moose is coming to his rescue and Nevada has the power-play.
Eighty-three seconds in, Nick gets the puck to Sunny, who tips it in beautifully and sends the goal horn wailing.
Perfection.
It brings the score to 4–2, but Nick isn’t going to rest on his laurels yet. A two-goal gap in hockey isnothing.
He finishes his shift, hauling himself over the boards and grabbing his water bottle, sucking in desperate sips while he catches his breath.
“How’s your head, Trix?” Tony checks, and Nick grins broadly.
“Never had complaints.”
Tony gives a long-suffering sigh, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “There’s gonna be a lot of that next season, isn’t there?”
The whole front office is aware of Nick’s upcoming stunt, after Nick realized a few days ago that they might murder him if he didn’t give at least some warning—and that Tony’s comment about his “good luck charm” might have been an attempt at support. “I’ll try and restrain myself,” he promises, but they both know he’s lying. “Seriously, though, I’m all good, I swear.”
Nick has one more shift before the buzzer goes, then they’re filing back into the locker room for second intermission. Nick isn’t surprised to see Kat beckon Sunny over for an interview—the kid’s been a star all game.
Nick pulls off his jersey to cool off, unlaces his skates, and leans back in his stall with his eyes half-closed. Twenty moreminutes, then they’re done. Because he’ll be damned if this thing goes to overtime.
That’s exactly what he tells his team before they head back out, and they cheer in agreement—none of them wants to be on that ice any longer than they have to be.
The third kicks off with a battle for the puck and a narrowly avoided tripping call on Duke’s part; and, unfortunately, another goal for the Comets. Nick watches them celebrate, and huffs around his mouthguard.
No more of those, thank you.
Nick gets through his next shift, and then another. And then a penalty kill after Banjo collides with the Washington goalie, the exhausted unit of four gathering their strength to defend the goal for—hopefully—the last time that game.
Three minutes and fifty-three seconds. They can do this. All they have to do is defend.
