Page 74 of Flashback for the Forward

Keeping his composure, Davenport smoothed a hand over his suit jacket. “As a matter of fact, I do. So I suggest you get your ass out there and score because hell will rain down on you boys if you fuck up my chances of getting laid.”

Jagger clicked his tongue and winked. “You already took the blue pill and the clock’s ticking. Got it.”

I leaned over toward Crew. “Better start lining up a new defensive partner because your current one has a death wish.”

My twin lifted his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head. “No fucking kidding.”

The ref blew his whistle, indicating the end of our timeout. I—along with those assigned to the first power-play unit, with Travis Whitley as the sixth man—lined up for the face-off in the defensive zone across from the Charlotte Crusaders players.

Pulling the goalie while tied was a risk. If the other team scored, we’d lose instead of taking the game to overtime and securing a point in the standings. And the part that particularly sucked about doing it while on the power play was that if our opponents slung the puck toward our net and missed, they wouldn’t incur an icing. We’d have to chase it down ourselves instead of getting a stoppage of play that brought it back into our zone.

But Davenport was a go-big-or-go-home type of guy, and he’d made it clear that if we wanted to crawl out of our spot at the bottom of the league, we couldn’t afford to play it safe.

So far, his plan was working; we’d already surpassed our eleven wins from last year, leaving us no choice but to buckle up for this crazy ride.

Glancing over my shoulder, I dipped my chin at Crew, letting him know the puck was coming his way, before returning my attention to the imminent face-off.

The Crusaders’ center laughed. “Your coach is an insane motherfucker.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I gritted out.

The puck was dropped, and muscle memory took over. It took less than a split-second for me to use my stick blade to send the black rubber disc back toward my brother. Then my head lifted, and I was moving into the slot, smack dab in the center of the offensive zone.

Crew made a D-to-D pass to Jagger, who skated deeper into the zone, swapping positions with Dylan. As soon as he drew a defender, he sent the puck to Levi.

We continued to use the space afforded to us by virtue of the Crusaders only having four men on the ice, but a quick peek at the scoreboard showed we were down to less than fifteen seconds. If we didn’t take a shot soon, this thing would be headed to overtime, and we could kiss that day off goodbye.

I tapped my stick on the ice, calling for a pass. Travis rang the puck along the boards to me, then set up camp in front of the goalie, effectively screening him. The netminder kept trying to see around him, to track the play, but Travis was stuck to him like glue, taking away his vision.

It provided the perfect distraction, allowing Levi to shift lower, where he eyed the open back door.

I skated along the blue line, pretending like I was about to pass to Crew for a slap shot, only to slide the puck to Levi, who was poised for the one-timer. Lightning quick, he brought his stick to the ice, sending the puck careening toward the net.

“Fuck!” I yelled when it dinged off the red metal post a second before the buzzer sounded, indicating the end of regulation.

Dropping my hands to my knees, I bent in half while trying to catch my breath after a long, intense shift. I wouldn’t be given much time to recover since I’d be sent right back out again for the start of the three-on-three overtime.

“It went in! Check the video!” Levi’s impassioned cries reached my ears, and I straightened.

What the hell was he talking about? It hit the post. I saw it with my own two eyes.

Levi skated straight for the bench, demanding one of the tablets we kept on hand for real-time film review. He tapped on the screen to pull up what I could only assume were the final seconds of the third period.

“Right there!” He gestured wildly to the tablet, turning it toward Coach. “Challenge it.”

Leaning forward, he watched the clip, lips pressed into a thin line. “I see it, Nixon, but since it happened during the final minute of play, my hands are tied. A review would have to be called in from Toronto.”

I skated closer, extending a hand. “Let me see.”

When you slowed down the video, it was clear that the puck had gone inside the net, at the top right corner, only to somehow squeak its way past the woven netting. “Well, I’ll be damned. You shot it right through the fucking net.”

As soon as I said that, everyone wanted to get a glimpse of what should, by all rights, be impossible.

There was a sharp whistle, calling us for the start of overtime, but none of us moved to line up.

Impatient, the ref barked, “Stop stalling, or I’ll call a penalty for delay of game.”

Coach sighed. “You heard the man. Get your asses out there.”