Page 276 of On His Team

Everybody keeps checking the time casually.

I catch Benson doing it once, then catch myself doing the exact same thing forty seconds later.

Stanley sends a picture to the group chat. It’s the whiteboard from the kitchen at Hawthorne, propped in the corner before we left.

1. DON’T COST US.

2. DON’T TAKE THE BAIT.

3. SHOW THE FUCK UP.

4. DO THE WORK.

5. WIN THE FUCKING THING.

Nobody answers right away.

I stare at the picture.

Win the fucking thing.

We wrote that in our kitchen in January. Stanley pressed so hard on the last one that the marker squeaked. Gianna made a comment. Everybody laughed. Then we went back to eating like we hadn’t just written down the thing that would end up following us for the rest of the season.

Blue finally sends a thumbs-up. I send one too. That is all anybody says about it.

The team meeting is at twelve, and Coach keeps it to twenty minutes. It’s all hockey. Michigan’s forecheck. What they did to us in Detroit. How aggressively they sent two men deep and forced our defensemen to make decisions before we had full possession. Their power play, which is one of the best in the country and hurt us badly three weeks ago. Their second pair. Faceoffs. Discipline. Fuller spends four minutes on discipline without looking at anyone in particular. Then he closes the laptop.

“That’s what I’ve got,” he says. “You’ve beaten very good hockey teams over the last three weeks. Nothing about tonight is beyond you.”

He picks his jacket up from the back of a chair. “Reeve.”

Benson stands. He looks around the room for a second before saying anything.

“I’ve lived with Stanley for four years, which means I’ve spent four years listening to this idiot tell me exactly how Camden was going to win a national championship before he graduated.”

Stanley nods seriously. “I did say that.”

A few guys laugh.

Benson points at him. “And the annoying part is, he actually believed it. Even when we sucked. Even when we didn’t get close. He believed it enough that eventually the rest of us started believing it too.”

Stanley’s smile fades into something more real.

Benson looks around the room again. “But we didn’t get here because Stanley decided this was our year. We got here because everybody in this room decided to do the work when nobody was watching.”

Nobody moves.

“One game,” Benson says. “That’s it.”

Stanley stands beside him. “Three weeks ago, Michigan took one from us.”

Benson nods.

“Tonight,” Stanley says, “we take the one that matters.”

That gets the room. Guys howl. Somebody hits the table. Benson grabs Stanley by the shoulders, and Stanley immediately tries to pull him closer.

“Let’s make out now.”