I’m laughing and can’t stop laughing because this is insane, this is impossible, this doesn’t happen in real life.
But it just did.
Through the chaos of my teammates piling on me, I find her in the stands.
She’s standing with both hands pressed to her mouth, staring at me with eyes so wide I can see the white all around. The people around her are going crazy but she’s perfectly still, like she’s been frozen.
Five.
The number hangs between us even though we’re a hundred feet apart. A promise. A threat. A challenge.
Five goals.
Her face goes white. Then red. Then she sits down very suddenly and starts laughing, shaking her head like she can’t believe this is her life.
She mouths something that’s definitely “you’re insane” or maybe “I’m going to fucking kill you” it’s hard to tell from this distance.
I just grin and let my teammates drag me back toward the bench.
We still have to play out the final two minutes. Calgary doesn’t score. The buzzer sounds.
Final score: 5-2.
Historic.
The media’s going to have a field day with this. But right now, all I can think about is getting through the post-game circus so I can get back to the hotel.
So I can deliver on my promise.
All five of them.
The locker roomis absolute chaos. Media everywhere—more than I’ve ever seen for a regular season road game. Cameras and microphones and reporters climbing over each other to get closer.
I just scored five goals in a single NHL game. It’s happened maybe a handful times in the last twenty years. Which means everyone wants everything—every detail, every thought, every feeling.
“Rodriguez, how does it feel to make history tonight?”
I’m still in my gear, sweat dripping down my back, trying to form coherent thoughts while my brain keeps circling back to Juliette. To what’s waiting for me.
“It feels incredible. Unbelievable. The puck was just finding me tonight and my linemates were putting me in great positions.”
“Five goals on seven shots. That’s a seventy-one percent shooting percentage. Did you feel unstoppable out there?”
“I wouldn’t say unstoppable. Just one of those nights where everything was clicking. The game slowed down and I could see plays developing before they happened.”
“What was going through your head on that empty netter?”
That my girlfriend is probably googling whether someone can die from too many orgasms.
“Just wanted to ice the game. Get the win. That’s always the most important thing.”
“You were pointing to someone in the stands after each goal. Want to tell us about that?”
My face heats. “Just acknowledging the fans who traveled to support us.”
More questions. More cameras. I answer on autopilot, giving them the standard hockey player responses—pucks on net, team effort, building momentum for playoffs—while my mind is already gone, already in that hotel room.
Finally, after what feels like hours, the media starts to thin out.
