But here we are. Game six. Conference Finals. Backs against the wall.
Walcott’s in net, standing tall so far. And by “tall” I mean slightly above average. He’s letting rebounds spill like change out of a torn pocket, but the defense has bailed him out every time.
Beck is suited up on the bench, rostered as tonight’s backup. Between plays, my gaze keeps traveling over there. With his helmet off, I can see every line of concentration on his handsome face. He keeps flexing his blocker hand like he’s trying to keep it warm in case something goes sideways.
He’d called me at five p.m., asking, “Can you find backup at work tonight? I’m on the bench, which means I’ve got two tickets for you.”
My answer, of course, was hell yes. Although I made Charlie show me his finished math homework before we walked out the door.
This is the Cougars’ seventeenth playoff game, and Beck’s fifth one on the bench. They didn’t turn to him at all during the first round. But Volkov’s old injury may be flaring, because Beck’s been on the bench backing up Walcott several times in quick succession.
L.A. has the power play, and Charlie and I are eating our feelings. He’s shoving popcorn into his mouth, and I have pretzel crumbs on my brand-new Cougars jersey that says JAMES on the back.
“They should put Beck in,” Charlie grumbles as we fail on the forecheck. “This would be his grudge match against L.A.”
“Yeah,” I agree. Especially if the hockey gods want me to throw up in public.
“He’d get ’em this time,” Charlie says confidently. “On his home turf.”
“That’s right.” This will be Beck’s home turf someday. I feel it in my bones.
We survive the power play, and I start to relax a little. But then there’s a scramble behind the net. Our D-man gets tangled up and goes down, and an L.A. winger takes the opening to crash the crease like a goddamn wrecking ball.
Walcott gets bowled over.
Hard.
Time slows down. The whole Cougars bench stands up for a better look at their teammate. The crowd downshifts from a roar to that eerie playoff silence when something goes sideways.
Walcott’s helmet is off, which is scary.
Players swarm the crease, blocking my view of the situation. But I note that Walcott’s feet aren’t moving.
Charlie whispers, “Oh fuck.”
I don’t even reprimand him.
Trainers hit the ice. The arena holds its collective breath.
Like everyone else, I’m praying for Walcott to get right up and shake it off. But I have the feeling Beck—our Beck—is about to get the nod.
Forty-Nine
Here He Comes
Beck
Everything starts happening in fast forward. They cut to a media timeout. The officials huddle up to chat about a potential penalty. And now the trainers have Zack sitting up. Talking. Hooray for that.
The referee booms, “L.A. number 17, five-minute major penalty for goaltender interference.” The fans cheer, and the bench relaxes a fraction of a degree.
Meanwhile, Coach Powers, one of the assistant coaches, and DiCosta, who witnessed the play, are huddled behind me, having a fast-moving conversation about next steps.
“He was out, right?” Coach asks. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” DiCosta responds. “For maybe ten seconds. Unresponsive. Then he opened his eyes and said oh shit.”
“Here he comes,” the assistant coach says, and we all watch as Zack skates with the team captain toward the bench, his helmet under his arm, while the stadium applauds him.
