“Thank you Jamie Carter!”
Jamie laughs in response.
The second line switches on and they are able to hold the score for the remainder of the third period.
Back in the locker room, I see Alexei grab Jamie and hoist him in a hug so big, I'm worried it will end with Carter on injured reserve.
“Thank you, Carter. We needed that.”
With a firm pat on Jamie's shoulder, Alexei walks to the corner of the room and clears his throat. Instantly, the room falls quiet.
“We cannot waste what will surely be the goal of the week. Let's get out there and win this, yes?”
A series of assents go around the room as the boys get hydrated and dried off.
I'm not at all surprised when Carter, Lindy, and I get the nod for the three-on-three overtime period. I wave Lindy over to where Carter and I are sitting.
“You remember that drill we ran that first day at camp? With the defenseman faking to one shooter, then backhanding to the other?”
The gleam in Carter's eyes tells me he knows theexactdrill I'm talking about.
“You mean the one you couldn't hit for shit?”
I laugh at that, and for a moment it's hard for me to believe this is even the same team as that sullen, silent group we had in September.
“Yeah, that one. Fake to Lindy, backhand to Jamie, one-timer into the net. Sokolov's got a weak glove side, so try for that?”
Carter nods.
“Let's do it.”
Just minutes later, we are out on the ice. From the start, things are chippy – at this point in the season, we have the league's two best records and pundits are already talking about us as a possible post-season matchup.
We lose the faceoff, mostly because Carolina is more focused on hitting Jamie off the puck than they are in playing the puck itself. That's unacceptable and I make sure they know it, delivering a hip check that leaves Johnson on the ice while I skate away with the puck. The hit is brutal but clean, and the referee has nothing to say as I skate back toward their goal.
Lindy and Carter are already positioned where we discussed – Lindy to the left of the net, with a nice angle for a shot. Carter's position is a little less optimal – a sharper angle on the pass and a worse position for the subsequent shot. That's partially the point, though – trying to get Carolina to take the bait, to see Lindy as the better option.
I think back to the Chicago game, to the way I showed Jamie how Volkov's body telegraphed his movements a second early. I try to mimic that now, subtly advertising a pass to Lindy that I never intend to complete. Sure enough, Carolina take the bait, shifting their defense heavily toward the left.
The fake pass gets them moving even faster that way. By the time I'm executing the backhand pass to Carter, he's in a better spot, able to execute the one-timer over the goalie's glove. With that, the sudden death period is over and the win is ours.
It’safter midnight before we trudge onto the plane, and I almost wish we could stay the night and fly out in the morning.As much as I would like to pour my body into a hotel bed and sleep for about twelve hours, I know I'll feel better in my own bed, my own apartment.
I settle into my usual seat, Jamie dropping down next to me just a few minutes later. The plane is quiet and dark as we taxi, and soon I find my eyes growing heavy. Before I know it, I'm feeling the plane touch down in Minneapolis. I also feel a warm weight on my left shoulder and, looking over, see Jamie's blonde hair peeking out from the hoodie that is perched on my shoulder.
I know I should be worried that someone will see, that someone willknowthis is more than just an exhausted hockey player falling asleep on the nearest horizontal surface. Instead, one side of my mouth quirks up in a smile.
“Yo, Rook.”
For a moment he rubs his head further into my shoulder, like a cat against its owner. I can see the moment when he realizes what's happening, as his head snaps up and he looks at me, wide-eyed.
“Sorry, Cap. Won't happen again.”
It's clear he, too, expects the worried, anxious person I've become. But at three in the morning after four consecutive road games, I can't seem to find him.
“No problem, Rook. No problem.”
The next day,I sleep in late, enjoying the rare Saturday off. Around lunchtime my phone starts buzzing – mostly the boys in the group chat planning a celebratory evening downtown. Around two, the phone starts ringing and I go to answer it, expecting it to be Alexei demanding my presence at the bar that evening.
