Page 92 of Her Coach

The sound was deafening. The puck clinked against the metal of the goal, tripping the light on the back, and our team’s colors flashed all about. Long gone was the thought of my phone in my hand. Long gone was the want to get Dani some good fucking videos to show her just what she missed. And as the well-used Jumbotron illuminated with Jett and Rhett’s faces, the word “GOAL” flashed in red, orange, and white on the screens.

I cupped my hands over my mouth and whooped as hard as I fucking could.

With forty-five seconds to go with that massive man in the penalty box, the boys quickly got to work. I got the video for Dani going again, holding it with both hands as I tried to find the best spot to record. Many people stood up now, biting their nails and chewing on their lower lips as Rhett and Jett kicked it into gear. The dynamic duo, they were called. Not very original, but it was true. As long as the two of them could perform unhindered on the ice, they were unstoppable.

It shouldn’t have shocked me when Jett sank yet another goal from halfway across the fucking ice.

“Oh my God!” I shrieked as I bounced up and down. “Yes! Yes! Come on, guys! We can do iiiiiiit!”

I did my best to hold my phone up and cheer, but I knew it was going to be a shitty video. Oh, well. Maybe it would convince Dani to throw her schedule out the window for once so that she could come visit. But a buzzer sounded, indicating that number 24’s time in the penalty box was finally over.

We all settled back down into our seats, the entire stadium seeming to silently agree that the teams needed quiet. I never heard the stadium so eerily calm before. It was like we were afraid to breathe. Up by one, with over fifteen minutes still to go in the final period.

I winced as Moose took blow after blow. He wasn’t letting those goals pass him by, but Jesus, they ran him ragged. I saw Colton scribbling furiously on his clipboard. Every time I looked over at him, he was either barking, scribbling, or yanking someone off the ice just to insert someone else. I knew enough to know that he took stock of his team. Trying to figure out who was better under pressure and in what scenarios. Frank got exchanged for Marcus, and then Marcus got pulled for Hawk. Hawk got switched back out moments later for Frank again, and then I saw Colton do something I couldn’t understand.

I watched him pull Rhett off the ice before he shoved Breakpoint onto it.

“Booooooooooo!”

“Put him back! Put him back!”

“Stone! Stone! Stone! Stone!”

“Bring Stone back! Bring Stone back! Bring Stone back!”

I ground my teeth as I listened to the crowd question Colton’s motive. Granted, I wasn’t sure what he was doing, either, pulling our best center off the ice with only five minutes to go in the game. But we were still up by one, and we all had to trust that Colton knew what he was doing.

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next, however.

The second Rhett got yanked off the ice, number 24, whose name I’d intentionally not get to know simply based on principle, seemed to back off Jett altogether. And that’s when I saw Colton grin. Even from my seat in the stands, I knew he’d just figured it out. That motherfucker didn’t hound Jett if Rhett wasn’t on the ice.

When Frank zoomed by, Colton ripped him off the ice long enough to say something to him before shoving him back out there. Frank zoomed around, his focus on number 24 while that Minnesotan kept tracking Jett with his eyes. While he wasn’t on Jett’s ass any longer, he didn’t take his sights off our sniper.

And something told me Frank was going to do something about it.

Around and around and around we went, with Moose catching every puck that came his way. Blades scored across the ice and the crowd would wind up to cheer before something happened, deflating all of them at once. Like letting out the air out of old-fashioned organ bellows.

Until finally, number 24 was distracted.

Immediately, and without Colton’s prompting, Frank zipped off the ice and Rhett was already moving before his skates hit the boards. Jett kept pumping up the crowd, rushing around the opposing side of the ice while number 24 tracked him with his eyes. The Daredevil’s coach yelled, but number 24 was much too focused. The Daredevil’s coach banged his clipboard against the side railing, trying to get the man’s attention, but it was already too late.

The crowd leapt to their feet as Rhett retrieved control of the puck. I screamed at the top of my lungs as Jett shoved himself off the protective wall, moving faster than I’d ever seen him move. Had I not been paying attention, I wouldn’t have even seen it.

The give-and-go they pulled off.

It was like watching a dance. The two of them zoomed past one another, Rhett firing the puck to Jett in a single crisp motion — no wind-up, no telegraph, just the puck moving between them so fast it was barely visible. Jett caught it in stride without breaking his line and kept going. Number 24 bit hard on the fake, tracking Jett down the right side.

Rhett rushed down the other side of the ice, snapping his stick back, and slammed the puck right into the goal, just before the buzzer for the game went off.

The stadium fell silent. One could’ve heard a pin drop as we all watched the Jumbotron. We were up by one. Flags were called on the play. Refs skated over to the video booth, where they seemed to stand there for fucking hours, watching the replay over and over again.

I used to roll my eyes whenever Mom went on about the importance of the video review system and the money she’d sunk into it. But as we stood there, collectively holding our breaths, I’d never respected my mother’s decisions for this stadium so much in all my fucking life.

The mic for the ref crackled. He skated to the middle of the ice. Then he began his hand motions as the crowd erupted into cheers.

“The play is good. Legal point for the Vipers.”

The Jumbotron ticked over the goal, leaving the final tally of the game 3 to 1, ours.