“Maybe a vacation,” Almardon suggests. “Five goals gets her Paris?”
“Diamond earrings,” Dex decides. “Has to be jewelry.”
I just shrug and focus on hydrating, on stretching out my legs, on anything to keep my mind busy. Anything to keep from thinkingabout her face after that third goal, the way she sat down like her knees gave out.
Barrett comes in and goes through adjustments for the third period. Calgary’s going to push hard. They’ll pull their goalie early if they have to. We need to stay disciplined, can’t give them any momentum.
“Rodriguez,” he says, looking right at me. “Draw defenders and feed your linemates.”
Feeding linemates is the last thing on my mind. There’s one word playing on repeat like a drumbeat in my head. Four. Four. Four.
About what that number means.
We head back out for the third period.
Calgary comesout like their hair’s on fire. They score two minutes in on a scramble in front, our defense losing their man for half a second. 3-2 now and their crowd comes alive.
Their bench is fired up, pounding the boards, their coach actually showing emotion for once.
Eight minutes into the third, we catch a break. Calgary takes a penalty for hooking Brody in the neutral zone. Barrett puts me out with the first unit. He wants us to ice this game, wants yes another goal.
The puck drops. We win the draw clean and work it back to our defenseman at the point. He slides it across to Dex, who’s got time and space.
Their penalty kill is scrambling, trying to adjust to our formation.
Dex looks for me. I’m camped at the side of the net with their defenseman trying to box me out, but he’s on the wrong side, giving me position.
Dex threads a pass through traffic—between two defenders and just behind their forward’s stick. The puck arrives on my tape like it was meant to be there.
I redirect it without even thinking, just a quick change of angle with my blade.
The puck hits my stick and deflects up. Over the goalie’s shoulder, under the crossbar, in off the water bottle on top of the net.
Four goals.
The celebration is different this time. Bigger, louder, more disbelieving. Because everyone’s starting to realize what’s happening. Four goals in one game from a single player doesn’t happen often.
I skate to the family section but this time I don’t point or blow a kiss. I just look at her and hold her gaze for three long seconds.
She knows.
When I get back to the bench, the guys are losing their minds.
“FOUR GOALS!” Brody’s screaming. “RODRIGUEZ WITH FOUR!”
“When’s the last time someone scored four in a game?” Anderson asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dex says, grinning at me. “Our boy’s making history tonight.”
Almardon leans over from two spots down and taps my helmet. “One more. Get five.”
Five.
The word hangs in the air like a challenge.
Nobody’s scored five goals in a game in years. It’s one of those stats they bring up occasionally, one of those occasionally rare things that seems a little out of reach in the modern NHL where goaltending is too good and defense is too structured.
But right now? Tonight?
