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"What would he want?" Holly questions. "He would have known Avery wouldn't be here. He would know we'd be in Boston with the team. So, he couldn't have been looking for her."
A shiver of apprehension runs through me at the thought of Randy trying to snoop through my things. I don't have anything of significant value here. I doubt his plan was to break in and walk out with an eighty-inch flat screen or a set of fancy cooking knives that I don't know how to use properly—because my cooking skills aren't exactly MasterChef quality. I don't know what to think. Maybe Randy wanted to scare me. Between the sadistic rose he sent and breaking down my door, maybe he's just playing mind games.
I call Payton and tell her what's happened. She agrees with Ryan and Luke. Randy is the likely culprit. She informs me that the police have been unsuccessful in locating him or his general whereabouts. With this new development, we can assume he is still in Toronto, not Los Angeles like we thought when he fell off the radar.
Stress creeps into my neck and shoulders as a headache starts behind my eyes. This is crazy. With everything going on right now, I'm genuinely surprised I haven't cracked and started acting like a lunatic.
Ryan attempts to distract me with his lovemaking skills, and he succeeds for a short time. His touches are soft and comforting yet possessive and commanding. Like he's trying to brand me as his, so the whole world knows I belong to him.
As we lay in bed, I can't help but worry and wonder. What is Randy's endgame? What does he hope to accomplish by evading the police and threatening me? He's only making things worse for himself. Something doesn't add up. Nothing makes sense.
The undercurrent of irrationality running through the events scares the shit out of me. Randy is desperate, deranged and dangerous, and when you mix those three things together, there is no telling what acts of desperation he may resort to.
And that thought is terrifying.
15?
Game Seven
Ryan
This series against Boston is making me fucking crazy.
We're tied two-two heading back to Boston for game five. The team is pissed. We had the opportunity to go up three games to one on home ice, and we choked. I can sense the uneasiness of the guys carrying that burden of the past on their shoulders.
The media, the league, and even our fans doubt us. Several years ago, the Northmen snuck into the playoffs for the first time in years. They went up three games to one against Boston, only to lose three straight in what was seen as an epic collapse. Toronto led by three goals with less than ten minutes in the third period of game seven. The Grizzlies stormed back, tied the game and won in overtime.
Boston won the Cup that year, forcing fans to wonder—if we had just held on in those final minutes, would we have won Hockey's Holy Grail and ended the drought?
Last year, Toronto was down three games to one but fought back to push a seventh game. And then lost to Boston. Again.
The third time's a charm, I think to myself.
I may not have been playing for Toronto for all those devastating defeats, but I know what it is like to lose heartbreakers. I want to be a difference maker. I want to be the x-factor that pushes us into the second round and beyond.
Right now, though, I just want anyone on our fucking bench to score a goal. We're in Boston in the third period and still suck at zero-zero. The teams are playing tight hockey. We are biding our time until Boston makes a mistake that we can capitalize on and then hope to hell the goalie can't bail them out.
"Short shifts, boys! Short shifts," Coach McCall shouts down the bench, slapping guys on the back as he paces from side to side. "Pucks to the net! Monk, Wilder, Stryker, let’s go!”
Coach uses our nicknames to call us to get ready for the next shift. Stryker is a fast fucker and smooth as butter on skates. He can score goals and has a set of hands that pass pucks as soft as pillows. We're called the Bee Line because we crash the net, hoping to sting the opposition.
Throwing myself over the bench, I haul ass to the middle of the ice, back-checking as Boston goes on the attack. Luke steals the puck from a corner, and I am wide open.
"Middle! Middle!" I yell as Luke saucers a breakout pass.
Stryker and Wilder immediately storm through the neutral zone and into Grizzly territory. I drop a pass to Luke, who anchors the blue line, then crash the net to get my big ass in front of Boston's goalie. Luke passes to Wilder, who skates in closer. I ease off to the left, lifting my stick to signal I want a pass.
Wilder spots me just in time, faking the shot, and crossing the puck over to me. I wind up and blast a one-timer at the net. The goalie has no chance as the puck rockets into the mesh, and the lamp lights red.
"Fuck yeah, baby," I holler as my teammates rally around me in celebration. We're up one-nothing with just over ten minutes to go. If we can hold them off, we can knock Boston out in six games on home ice.
In the playoffs, time does one of two things— it inches by, slow as fuck, when you're trying to hold on to a lead, or it speeds up when you're playing from behind. It feels like time is crawling right now, giving Boston a better chance to tie things up.
The Grizzlies don't need any extra help. The refs have been gifting them penalties all series.
With five minutes to go, we score another goal to make it two-nothing, and Boston starts to push back. At the three-minute mark, they pull the goalie. March breaks into our zone, a step ahead of the play. I yell for offside, but the linesmen let the play continue, and the puck ends up in the back of our net.
We call for a Coach's Challenge on the goal, but the call on the ice stands, which means Boston is now on the powerplay. The video review clearly shows the Boston player entering the zone before the puck does. But the new offside rule says if the player has control of the puck, he can cross the blue line before the puck does. It's so subjective it's stupid. The rule isn't black and white, and it makes me livid.
