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Goal.
I hear the thunderous roar of the crowd. The loud tapping of sticks against the boards, my teammates’ seal of approval, echoes through the packed arena. Camila skates by and smacks my arm.
“Yes, baby!” she crows, and then we make another shift change, and the second line takes over.
When the buzzer goes off to indicate the end of the first period, we’re tied 1–1.
The second period is as high intensity as the first. It’s a battle of the defense, both offenses getting shut down hard. I’m tangled up multiple times behind the Providence net. It’s my least favorite place to be. I’m smaller than a lot of other players, which makes it hard to win battles behind the net. I don’t have the shoulders for it. My dad always makes fun of my dainty shoulders.
Luckily, I’m fast, so I can usually get myself out of jams. Rather than battle, I try to pass to Cami at the point, only for it to be intercepted. The next thing I know, we’re chasing them again. The rest of the third period is like that. Deep pressure. High speeds.
Providence leads us 2–1 all the way until the last forty seconds, when Neela makes a play behind the net. Unlike me, she thrives back there. She keeps their goalie distracted, then manages to get the puck in front of the net, directly into Whitney’s waiting stick for a one-timer.
The charity organizers whisper to Coach Adley that they don’t want this ending in a tie, so we hold a tiebreaker shootout that Briar handily wins because nobody can outshoot me. Nobody.
And just like that, we win the charity game, a.k.a. the Death Match.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan on the walk to the locker room. “That was ridiculous.”
All my teammates appear equally exhausted.
“I thought I was in shape!” Neela squawks. “Like, I’ve been lifting hard in the offseason. My arms feel like jelly.” She lifts them up, then lets them drop down like wet noodles.
Coach strides into the locker room before everyone starts to change.
“That was some damn good hockey,” he tells us, looking around in admiration. Then he rolls his eyes. “Although I’m not sure which part of ‘Save your energy for our season opener’ you didn’t understand,” he finishes, referring to the speech he gave before the game began.
“You know us, we leave nothing out there on the ice,” Whitney chirps.
He sighs. “Someone told you Brad Fairlee was in the stands, I presume?”
“Yup,” she says, and everyone laughs.
Everyone except me. Because my blood has run cold.
Brad Fairlee?
Anxiety tugs at my belly, twisting into a knot. “What happened to Alan Murphy?” I blurt out.
“He’s out,” Adley says. “The higher-ups are saying medical reasons. They’re being hush-hush about it, but I think he might’ve suffered a heart attack or several.”
“Jeez, is he okay?” asks Whitney.
“I believe he’s still in the hospital, but that’s all I know. USA Hockey gave the job to Brad Fairlee, their offensive coordinator. He’s good. Well-deserved promotion.” Adley heads for the door. “All right. Get dressed. I’ll see you on the bus.”
Everyone starts talking amongst themselves again as girls drift toward the showers. My nervous energy only intensifies while I shower the sweat and exhaustion away. I don’t wash my hair, just throw it up in a wet topknot, get dressed, and hurry out of the locker room.
I want to find Brad Fairlee, but I’m not sure what to say to him. We haven’t spoken in a few years. I suppose I could pretend I’m asking about his daughter, Emma, but depending on how much she’s told her dad, he might see through that ruse. Because I don’t give a flying hoot how Emma Fairlee is doing.
Still, I can’t just let the head coach of the national team leave this building without at least trying to gauge where his head is at. I should have heard something by now. That is, I should have heard something if they were considering me for the team. I know one girl from Wisconsin was already asked to train with them, so they must be in the process of finalizing their roster. They have to; all the big games are coming up, like the 4 Nations Cup in November and the USA-Canada Rivalry game in February. And then next February is the biggest game of all. The Olympics.
God. I fucking want this.
I don’t ask for a lot of things. I was never one of those spoiled girls who asked Daddy for ponies and demanded an elaborate Sweet Sixteen party. Granted, Wyatt and I spent our sixteenth birthdays watching our dad win Game Seven of a critical playoff series. His team didn’t win the Cup that year, but it’s still pretty cool to spend your birthday in the owners’ box at TD Garden.
This, though. I want it. Want it so bad I can taste it.
