“I’m fine, really,” is the first thing Walcott says to Powers. “I’m good.”
“You blacked out,” Powers says tersely. “That means?—”
“It was only for a sec,” he argues, but his gaze is squinty.
“Doesn’t matter,” Coach insists. “You’re coming off for the rest of the period. Start the concussion protocol.”
“Coach—”
Powers cuts off the objection with a slash of his hand. “No. I’m not willing to risk your brain, no matter how much is riding on this game.”
Then he turns to me and says what everyone is thinking. “Becker James, you’re going in for the rest of the period.”
Holy, holy shit. My eyes cut to the clock, which reads 5:32.
“Boys, keep the pressure up! We’ve got a power play, so let’s use it. Don’t give them a minute’s rest. Clean passes. Keep up the momentum. And communicate.”
Yanking my glove on, I step onto the ice, stretching furiously and listening to Powers wrap up his comments. “Pressure, guys. We’re not missing a step, here. Show me a goal in the next five minutes.”
I skate to the crease and try to settle in. Going in late in the game has its own weird energy.
Then the announcer says, “In the net for the Cougars, goaltender Becker James!” And the crowd lets out a roar of support.
“James,” DiCosta says, skating by me. “You got this.”
“You so do!” Stoney says, gliding by.
“Talk to us. We got you. You’re not alone down here,” Kapski says.
You’re not alone. Good thing, because this is one of the highest-pressure moments in my entire life. Unbidden, my eyes dart toward the section where Forest’s seats should be, and I find him like a heat-seeking missile. He’s on his feet, cheering frantically, with Charlie bouncing beside him.
Seeing him up there does something to me. No matter what happens in the next five minutes of play, I can still call Forest after the game and hear the rumble of his voice in my ear. Or drive to the bar and see his smile when I walk in the door. That’s not going to change.
Even so, I might as well show off a little for him.
“Let’s fucking go,” I whisper, dropping into my stance. I narrow my focus to the face-off circle.
The ref flicks his wrist, and I’m locked in. Stoney wins the puck and passes to DiCosta. Who passes again. Zip. Zap. Smack. I’m tracking the action like I was born for it, even as the speed of play ramps up to a dizzying pace.
After a few false starts, Stoney finally gets a shot on net. But it bounces off the post, and we don’t get the rebound. L.A. has sent out their PK team, with fresh instructions to rattle my cage. And now that they’ve got the puck, they do their damnedest.
Like a tidal wave, the action rolls toward my end of the rink. L.A. is doing its best to sow confusion, with lots of faked shots and quick passes. But my skaters are dialed in and ready to defend their turf.
During a line change, I sneak a glance at the penalty clock. We’re running out of time to capitalize, and now the puck is changing hands like this is a speed-dating mixer. As the power play ticks toward its inevitable end, the game gets fast and chippy. Lots of elbows and cursing, while I try to track the puck through the scrum.
Newgate and L.A.’s center battle it out for the puck at the boards. L.A. gets the puck, but the guy flubs it, sending it dribbling in my direction. Newgate trips him, sending the guy sprawling, and doesn’t get called for it.
Thank you. I move up, take it on my stick, and look up for the pass.
“Take your time,” I hear someone yell—might be Stoney, might be God. Either way, I hunt for my best option. I notice that L.A.’s line change is a hot mess. Their forwards are tangled up like a phone charger in my gym bag.
My guys are resetting, so I could wait another breath until one of them is open.
But there’s a wide, clear lane in front of me. Just ice. Glorious, empty ice.
I’ve done this a hundred times in practice. Not seriously, not under the lights, but?—
Screw it.
