Page 217 of On His Team

Then the horn goes.

Instead of heading down the tunnel with everybody else, the five seniors stay near the boards.

Tate. Faulkner. Me. Ermington. Reeve.

For a second, standing there in a line feels stranger than anything else tonight. I’ve heard my name over this sound system hundreds of times. Starting lineups, goals, penalties, assists. I’ve heard it when I played well and when I wanted the building to forget I existed.

Tonight it sounds different.

The announcer starts with Tate. His parents come out.

Then Faulkner.

Then me.

My mom is already crying before she gets all the way onto the ice. My dad gets to me first, and I hug him before my mom steps in and wraps both arms around me. She hangs on long enough that I can feel her trying not to make it worse.

“Mom,” I tell her.

“I don’t care.”

She pulls back and kisses my cheek anyway. My dad puts one hand on my shoulder and says something, but the crowd is loud enough that I don’t hear it.

I see it instead. Proud of you.

That lands harder than I expect.

I nod once because anything more is going to turn into something I don’t want to deal with before a hockey game.

Then I look toward the stands. Gianna is standing beside Lucy, and she has both hands around her mouth like she’s been yelling my name for the last thirty seconds.

When she realizes I’m looking at her, she points at me. Then she puts one hand over her chest. It is such a Gianna thing to do that I smile before I can stop myself.

The ceremony moves on. Stanley makes his mother laugh while she’s crying. Benson’s parents look like they are trying not to do the same. Pictures get taken. Flowers get handed over. Then it ends. Our parents leave the ice, and finally we get to do something I understand.

Play hockey.

Michigan scores first again. That irritates everybody enough to settle us down. Tate gets it back in the second. The puck comes loose near the slot, and he puts it through before their goalie can close down the angle. The second it goes in, our bench loses its mind. Not just because it ties the game. Everybody knows what it could be. Tate’s last home goal.

Maybe the last goal he ever scores in this building. He knows it too. I can see it when he gets back to the bench, and everybody is hitting the top of his helmet. He smiles, but something else is underneath it.

Blue gets our second.

Michigan ties it in the third.

2-2.

By overtime, the whole building feels tight.

Every rush gets louder. Every bad bounce feels dangerous. Every time Michigan gets possession in our end, the crowd rises before anything even happens.

Nobody wants Senior Night to end with us watching them celebrate.

With two minutes left, Michigan turns the puck over near their blue line.

Stanley gets there first and moves it across to me. Benson is already cutting through the middle, slipping into the space that opens when their defense steps toward the puck.

I give it back. One touch. He shoots. For half a second, I lose sight of the puck. Then the red light comes on. The sound in the building hits before anything else does.