“Fuck,” he curses and turns, skating away as he smacks his stick on the ground.
The crowd erupts, booming around me as I toss the puck to the linesman. They start chanting something, but I can’t make it out until it finally clicks.
They’re chanting, “Big Mac.”
Oh my God.
Righting myself, I take a moment, just a short second, to look up and take it in. The fans are on their feet, screaming andshoutingmynickname, over and over again until my heart beat syncs with their chant. I know the fans aren’t always supportive, and there are moments where it feels like they’ve turned on me. But right now, they are an extension of us, playing a big part in this game, and they might not even realize it.
They show up, for wins and losses, filling the arena every game night. Tonight, we’re going to repay them. I glance at the clock one more time before dropping my attention to the game.
Six minutes left. No one scores.
Five minutes. Nothing.
Four minutes.
Three minutes.
Two minutes.
The clock changes to ticking seconds instead of minutes, and my heart leaps into my throat.
Possession switches back and forth, neither team taking control. A weird pass sends the puck deflecting off a player’s stick and into the crowd. The refs don’t assign any delay of game penalties, and they reset at a face-off dot.
Forty-five seconds.
Larinski sets up against the Wild defenseman, the linesman gliding up to them with the puck in hand. This could be the last drop. The last face-off.
“Come on, Reed,” I whisper to myself, down in position and ready for anything to come my way.
Time slows down as I watch the puck fall to the icy ground, Reed’s and the Wild player’s stick going to war for it. But Reed wins it, flicking the puck back between his legs to Kos, who catches it and quickly dishes it to Costy, who’s now waiting on the blue line, ready to burst into the zone.
Thirty-five seconds.
Costy skates it down behind the red line and around the back of the net while the rest of the guys skate into position. He kicksit up to Burnsy, who taps it up to Larinski. Back to Burnsy. Across the ice to JD, who pulls his stick back and fires.
Twenty seconds.
The shot hits the crossbar, but thankfully, Burnsy gets the rebound and dishes it back to JD, over to Larinski. To Costy, who quickly fires as the time ticks away, only ten seconds remaining. My heart is in my throat, and I think I might throw it up.
Kos, stationed in front of the net, lifts his stick, and the puck bounces off of it. But I can’t see where it goes. I can’t see anything other than the chaos of bodies crashing the net.
But then my ears start ringing, tuning the arena out. So much stimulation floods me at once, and I can’t make sense of it. It’s pure shock and chaos. My body rights itself, and I’m desperate to see what’s happening.
My gaze flicks up to the lamp above the goalie, right behind the glass, and it finally dawns on me. It’s glowing red.
It’s glowing.
Holy shit.
It’s glowing.
“It’s glowing!” I cheer.
As if speaking breaks the sound barrier on my ears, the world tunes back in, and I hear the horn blaring through the speakers, the crowd at an ungodly loud level … because we just … no way.
Movement in front of me tears my attention, and it takes me a second to process what I’m seeing, but it clicks, and it’s like reality slams into me all at once. My team has cleared the bench, and all of them are racing toward me. Because we just … we just won the Stanley Cup.
