Roman is the exception. He’s been on this team for years and he doesn’t take sides. He sat next to me at the hotel restaurant the morning after Game 3, ate his eggs in complete silence for twenty minutes, then said “the only thing that matters is the next save” and got up and left. It’s the most helpful thing anyone’s said to me since this started.
Barrett called me into his office yesterday. Just the two of us with the door closed and his whiteboard covered in defensive plays.
“You played differently in Game 4. You were communicating. Directing your defense. Being loud.” He leaned back. “That’s what I need from you for the rest of this series. I don’t need you to fix things with Jack. I don’t need you to fix the lockerroom. I need you to be the goalie. And the goalie’s job is not just to stop pucks. The goalie’s job is to be the last voice the defense hears before the play develops. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Coach.”
I sat awkwardly waiting for him to either tell me to leave or continue his expectations but instead he said, “Mackinnon flew to Miami?”
He was looking at his whiteboard his face exactly the same as always.
“Yes sir,” I said. “She did.”
Finally his mouth jerked up in a smile and he shook his head slightly. “Good, at least she got your head straight.” Then he motioned at the door. “Go and hope to God Jack doesn’t find out about it.”
Game5 we’re back on home ice. The building is loud in a way that only happens when a team is doing something impossible, we’ve given them hope and now they’re leaning into it.
I play. I stop pucks. I communicate with my defense and my defense communicates back. Rodriguez scores in the first. Brody scores in the second on a redirect he practices constantly in warmups and never hits and tonight it goes in and the building loses its mind. They get one back in the third and the last eight minutes are a war. I make saves I don’t remember making—the kind where the replay shows something impossible and I’ll thinkthat was me?
We win 4-2 and now the series is 2-3 going into Game 6.
The locker room after is louder than it’s been since the playoffs started. Music blasting from someone’s speaker, Rodriguez dancing in a towel. It sounds normal. Except Jack undresses, showers, and leaves without speaking to anyone.
Nobody mentions it but everybody sees it.
Game 6 is backin Miami. The plane is different, the team is coming back to life.
I’m in my window seat with Mackie’s playlist on. She made it three months ago—‘zach’s pre-game brain reset’—and every third song is by the same band. Save Divinity. Indie pop punk, which I didn’t know was a genre until Mackie made it my entire pregame routine. I’ve been listening to this playlist for three months but I still can’t tell their songs apart.
Rodriguez falls into the seat next to me and pulls one of my earbuds out.
“What are we listening to?”
“Mackie’s playlist.”
He puts it in his own ear and his face changes immediately. “Is this Save Divinity?”
“It’s always Save Divinity. Half this playlist is Save Divinity.”
“Your girl has incredible taste.” He’s nodding along now. “Did she tell you we saw them last year? At a little dive bar with maybe a hundred people. They played for two hours and the lead singer broke a mic stand. I’m getting their logo tattooed after the season. Already picked the spot.”
“You’re getting a tattoo of a band logo.”
“It’s not just a band. It’s a lifestyle.”
“It’s pop punk.”
“It’s a LIFESTYLE. Your girlfriend gets it. Why don’t you get it?”
“I don’t know what there is to get. They all sound the same.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
He falls asleep next to me, Save Divinity playing into one ear. I put my head back and close my eyes.
We win Game 6.3-2. I’m standing in my crease with my arms at my sides and my legs shaking and the horn fills the silence of all the Florida fans who just watched a team down 0-3 tie the series.
Rodriguez skates the full length of the ice, bypassing the entire celebration, and comes straight for me. He grabs my helmet with both hands and puts his forehead against mine.
