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“Kid,” Coach calls to me, and I look from my socks—one of mine, and one of Frankie’s—to him. He clasps my shoulder and points out toward the ice. “It’s all yours now, and I expect that you play the same damn way you played in Houston. Play like the kid I recruited because he was the most arrogant little shit I ever saw on the ice, and you had what it took to back that up.”
“Will do, Coach.”
“We never talked about what changed from then until you came to Lincoln, and that’s because I knew you didn’t want to, and we’re not going to do that now, either. But I need you to know, they’re here with you.”
“Fuck, Coach, this is emotional shit already. Don’t—”
“All of them.” He nods to section where everyone else’s family sits but never mine … until today.
“How the hell—”
“Now, hold the hell up. Before we go getting into all that, I need you to promise me that I have that kid from Houston on this ice, giving one hundred and ten percent every fucking game.”
I nod because fuck, my throat is burning, and my eyes, they are, too.
“I don’t give a shit about your viral posts, or that you’re signed, or that Dean Costello would probably give his left nut to get you to Brooklyn. I want your word that you’ll give me everything this season.”
“You’ve got two more, Coach.” I assure him.
“Don’t kid yourself.” He chuckles. “Go win us our first game and try to forget that the fucking Puck Net and ESPN have basically moved into our house. Fucking bastards.”
Over the system comes, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Costello Arena the home of the Lincoln Lions, winners of the 2019 Frozen Four.”
I exhale a breath and step out onto the ice, my team behind me as I do a lap, and I do it avoiding looking at the crowd. But out of the corner of my eye, I do see them, and I see them sitting with Riley’s mom and dad, who I invited and didn’t tell her. I can’t help but smile at the idea that Riley probably knew about my family being here and kept it from me, and vice versa.
During stretches and warmups, Rutgers talks so much shit about us being second line bitches that JT is ready to fight before the game has even begun.
“Save all that for the game, every fucking ounce of your anger, man!” I yell at him. “We’re not just winning this game; it’s going to be a shut out so no other team we face comes at us like that again.”
“Hell yes on the shut out,” Hank agrees. “JT, you and Ash keep number 14 from getting to me, and I’ll owe you one.”
“Why’s that?” Dash asks him.
“His high school girlfriend was hot, and I may have commented on her IG posts daily for a couple years about her being too hot for his ugly ass.” He grins. “Kid hates me.”
“She here?” JT looks at their student section.
Hank nods as he points to her. “She sure is. Faithful to a fault.”
Standing center ice, facing off against a fifth-year senior, I tell him, “Good luck.”
His eyes narrow, lips curl, and I laugh. This pisses him off more than I hoped it would, and when the whistle blows and the puck drops, I’ve already passed it to Dash before he even gets his head where it needs to be.
Koa is faster than he looks, throwing Rutgers D for a loop as he captures the pass from Dash, two men covering him. They don’t even have me in the equation, leaving me wide open and the goal unprotected, which is where they fuck up in the first twenty seconds of the game.
The crowd erupts as the announcer calls my name. “Rivera, number 13, with his first goal of the season.”
The rest of the first period isn’t as easy, and the score remains 1 to 0.
Second period plays a hell of a lot differently. Rutgers thinks they have our number. Koa and I both receive cheap-ass shots but, as planned, we don’t retaliate only being ahead by one, because that’s what they want. They want us off the ice and in the box so they have a chance. They’ve also underestimated the fact we’re a team, and not a two-man show. Against the boards, I manage to pass to Dash, who’s in front of the undefended goal, and he dangles the puck through their goalie’s five hole, giving us a 2-0 lead.
Facing off again, the whistle blows, the puck is dropped, and I’m tackled to the ground as their center just goes after me. Honestly, all I can do is laugh.
“You smell like desperation, bitch, and a loss, man!”
Dash and Koa skate in. Rutgers’ players do the same, assuming we’ve had enough, but we haven’t. We haven’t not even gotten started.
JT has the puck as Koa splits from what was about to become a pile and hauls ass down the ice. From my nice, comfy spot on the ice, I watch JT slap the puck straight to the goal, and Koa is right there to tap it in, giving us a 3-0 lead three seconds before the buzzer.
