Beck
There is no good emoji for nerves. Except the green puke one. I hate that one.
Forest
You got this. I believe in you.
Beck replies with the green puke emoji.
I’m a ball of nerves myself as the game begins. L.A. is two points behind the wild card line with two games left, which means they’re hungry and desperate. The Cougars, on the other hand, are locked in for the playoffs, so this game isn’t crucial for them.
It is for Beck, though. This is a big test of his abilities and his composure.
Denny orders Indian food, but I can hardly eat. I’m too busy shouting at his TV screen. Right from the first period, it’s a weird, high-scoring game.
L.A. comes out flying—like hair-on-fire, playoff-or-bust energy. They throw pucks at the net from everywhere. Their forecheck is relentless. They pin our guys in their zone for long stretches, and Beck is just—Jesus. He’s everywhere. Glove, blocker, pad, repeat.
But the Cougars’ skaters are loose. Too loose. They’ve already punched their ticket to the postseason, and it shows. Lazy backchecks. Fancy drop passes that don’t connect. We’re not winning puck battles, and Beck is getting hung out to dry.
“I’m so angry right now,” I grumble, shoving a samosa in my mouth.
“He’s doing it, though,” CJ says. He’s on the edge of his chair, too. We all are. “Your boy has moves.”
By the end of the first, it’s 2–2, and he’s already stopped sixteen shots. My stomach’s in knots, and Denny’s yelling, “This is the most stressed I’ve ever been watching a game that doesn’t matter!”
Except it does matter. To Beck. And therefore to me. I hope he finds rage-texting romantic, because I keep firing off my thoughts to his phone.
Forest
What are they doing tonight? Napping?
Ugh. That turnover is NOT your fault.
The rest of the game gets even more unhinged. We go up 3–2 off a fluke deflection that bounces like a pinball past their goalie. But then we take two dumb penalties in a row, and L.A. buries both power plays. One of them is a backdoor tap-in that Beck had zero chance on.
I’m pacing now, arms crossed over my chest, my food going cold on the coffee table. Denny’s dog is hiding under the couch from all the yelling.
Then time runs out, and Coach Powers pulls Beck with ninety seconds left. The team rallies to give L.A. the same kind of barrage that Beck had faced all night.
But it’s not enough. We’ve lost 3-4 when the buzzer sounds.
I text Beck.
This is not on you, and Powers knows it. You played really well tonight, and you kept your composure like a champ.
“We gotta take a selfie,” Big Bob says. “Let Beck know we were pulling for him.”
“Yes!” Kenji shouts. “Wait, Denny? Got a notepad? We need a message.”
A few minutes later, after I’ve loaded up Denny’s dishwasher with our dishes, I’m summoned to take a selfie with the guys in front of Denny’s poker table. Kenji holds up the sign that says in Sharpie print, YOU SLAYED TONIGHT!
I laugh when I see it, and then Big Bob takes the pic, because he has the longest arms.
When I drive home, I feel strangely satisfied. The game didn’t go how any of us wanted, but Beck can hold his head up high. And my friends are awesome.
After I get home, Beck responds.
Beck
