He only chuckles and assures me it’s okay.
The scrum clears, and the goalie tosses the puck up to the linesman. Back and forth, neither team can seem to break the wall in front of the net. Both goalies are playing impeccably, but eventually, something has to give.
After the next ten minutes of damn near nonstop play, there’s a TV time-out. I can’t hear him from here, but Carrington is an angry force on the bench, staring into all of the players’ souls. Matt’s not in the huddle. He’s skating figure eights around the net as the ice crew work around him to clean the snow, which isn’t abnormal for him or any other goalie.
They’re not usually a part of the huddles unless they’re summoned over, but that can be far and few between. As long as a goalie’s performing, they’re pretty free to manage their game on their own.
After the huddle, the tension in the arena feels tight. It’s charged and ready to break.
The Wild win the face-off, and Brett loses his feet, trying to steal the puck, putting the Wild on a short-lived advantage while they fly down the ice. It happens fast, and it happens smoothly.
Owen Knox dishes the puck out to his forward, who sends it over to the defenseman. Knox sprays Matt as he sprints and slows by the net. The defenseman fires, but Matt stops it with his forearm. It bounces off him, and Knox hits the puck midair, sending it deep into the net and putting the first point on the board.
“Shake it off, Matt,” I whisper to myself, chewing on my cuticles and trying to bite my entire finger off from the nerves. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”
The Wild take extra enjoyment in celebrating their goal, making sure to skate past our bench, shouting what I’m sure are super-kind words to the players.
The crowd chants, “Let’s go, Nighthawks,”followed by five claps, the last three faster than the first two. They repeat it over and over as the game resets at center ice.
We win the face-off. Brett and Cam run a play, and to my complete disbelief, the goalie stops it.One hell of a stop.Their defense is weaker though; our guys are easily able to workthem and work around them. It’s because of their goalie they’re winning right now.
For the most part, I can’t stop watching Matt. As much as I don’t want to acknowledge it, there’s a heaviness in his shoulders that wasn’t there before their goal. I can tell from thirty feet away and behind a mask that he’s thinking about it still. About what he could’ve done better. About how it’s his fault that they’re winning. But he has to shake that, or it’s going to eat him alive.
The Wild gain possession and enter the zone. Matt is homed in, studying every angle, tracking every possible path the puck can take. One of their forwards shifts his hips just a little, but enough to flag my mind. But Matt doesn’t see it. He’s watching the other side of the ice, where the center is baiting him.
“Come on, Matt,” I murmur as the center passes over to the forward, who swings true, sending the puck soaring over Matt’s shoulder and beneath the crossbar.
Dammit.
Carrington curses behind the bench, as do a few of the other players, and the crowd falls silent. Goals happen; they do. It’s inevitable in this game. A shutout in game six of the finals? Not impossible, but incredibly unlikely.
The Wild boast their lead as they showboat past the bench before bumping knuckles with their teammates. Matt’s facing the net, shoulders heaving with his hands on the crossbar.
“You suck!” someone shouts from the crowd.
From the quietness, I can hear it, and I know Matt can, too, because his breath hitches for just a second.
Don’t let it get to you, Matt. You’ve got this.
There’s a saying, or perhaps a curse, in hockey—Two goals is the worst lead. It’s because anything can happen, and while the momentum may carry the winning team to the end, it can alsoput them in a comfortable spot, letting the underdog sneak in and steal the win.
That’s what’s going to happen tonight. We are going to win.
With only four seconds left in the first period, it quickly runs out after puck drop. I know the players and staff will be quickly exiting, so I flatten myself back against the wall slightly. And as if on cue, the bench clears and empties down the tunnel, followed by the players stepping off the ice.
Matt’s the last to leave it, and I hear a few “fans” mock him as he steps onto the rubber, his head down and eyes glued to the floor. I know Andy’s warned me about not interfering with him between periods, but he’s not on his A game. He’s in his head, and I’m going to help him get out of it.
Stepping into the walkway, I block his path and put my hand against his chest. “Stop.”
He inhales sharply, painfully, his gaze flicking quickly up to mine. Disappointment and heartbreak fill his stare. “Please move, Shay.”
We may fight about this as a couple later, but right now, I’m his coach with the best knowledge of him and how to pull him out of this.
“No.”
Fisting the front of his jersey, I spin on my heel and drag him behind me. Thankfully, he follows willingly. The man is massive. If he didn’t want to, he easily could’ve stopped me.
“Shay,” he begs, his voice soft and weak.
