She beams at me and launches into an explanation of her full game day routine, which apparently involves eating chocolate chip waffles with her step-dad Dex for luck before his game, then for lunch seven chicken nuggets and watching the same episode of some cartoon three times in a row. I’m nodding along but my eyes keep drifting to the ice, to the bench, to?—
There.
Zach’s sitting at the end, mask on top of his head, and I wish I could text him. To tell him I’m here, I’m watching, I see him.
And I can’t risk my mom glancing over and seeing his name on my screen.
So I just stare at the back of his helmet and hope he can somehow feel it.
The first period is fine.Fast, physical, but fine. We’re up one-nothing and Luca’s been solid in net and everything is going according to plan.
Second period, still fine. They tie it up but whatever, it’s playoff hockey, nothing’s ever easy. Third period is when it all goes to shit.
Five minutes in, there’s a scrum in front of Luca’s net. Bodies everywhere, sticks tangled, the whistle blowing but nobody actually stopping. Standard playoff nonsense.
Then one of their forwards says something to Luca.
I can’t hear it from up here. Can’t even really see through all the bodies.
But I see Luca’s reaction.
He goes completely still, like someone hit pause on him. Then his whole body tenses and I swear to god I can feel the energy shift from the family suite, like something very bad is about to happen.
“Uh oh,” Blythe says next to me.
Not reassuring, coming from a nine-year-old who apparently has psychic abilities.
The forward skates away. Play resumes. Luca makes a save. Everything’s fine.
Except it’s not fine. I can tell it’s not fine. Luca’s movements are different now, he’s not just playing, he’s seething.
Two minutes later, the forward is back in front of the net and says something else.
Luca doesn’t hesitate. He drops his stick, throws his glove, and LAUNCHES himself at the guy like he’s trying to commit murder on live television.
“HOLY SHIT,” someone behind me yells, which, yeah, same.
The arena explodes. Luca’s on top of the forward, blocker still on, and he’s just whaling on him while screaming. I can’t understand a single word but I understand the tone. The tone is I am going to end your entire existence.
Refs blowing whistles. Both benches emptying. Someone’s bleeding—a lot, there’s a lot of blood on the ice—and it takes six guys to pull Luca off. He’s still fighting, still screaming, and the sound of it is going to live in my nightmares.
They’re escorting him off the ice.
Game misconduct. Ejection.
Which means?—
My heart stops.
Which means they need another goalie.
I watch Zach stand up from the bench. Watch him pull his mask down. His hands aren’t steady. I can see that from here. He skates toward the crease and my stomach is somewhere around my ankles because he hasn’t warmed up. He was just sitting there. He wasn’t ready for this and now he’s skating into the third period of a playoff game.
He looks so small in net. Even from up here I can see him swallow hard before he drops into position.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come on, Zach, you’ve got this.”
Blythe’s hand finds mine and squeezes. I don’t know if she’s comforting me or herself but I squeeze back and don’t let go. Someone takes my other hand and I turn my head to see Rodriguez’s girlfriend, Juliette.
