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The Holt player shoots…and scores.
Another siren.
Another announcement.
This time it’s “Holt University goal scored by number fifteen, Conor Hart…”
Ten seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The buzzer sounds.
I scream, hugging my mom as we both jump up and down.
Blue jerseys swarm the ice.
And Holt’s hockey team are champions.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AIDAN
We won.
Wewon, and it hasn’t fully sunk in yet.
I don’t know if I’lleverprocess what this feels like. It’s a feeling I’ve never experienced before. Standing on unfamiliar ice in front of a sold-out crowd, knowing that months—years—of work are culminated in this one moment. Early practices and weight sessions and long bus rides. Literal blood and sweat. Bruises and sore muscles. The grind of showing up hungover or tired or simply not in the mood to skate. My dad’s voice, telling me to go to Stanford and get a fancy degree and to forget about the pointless exercise of playing hockey. All the film sessions in the creepy back room and the speeches from Coach K and the inside jokes with my teammates.
The last competitive hockey game I’ll ever play just ended, and I’ll be stepping off this ice as a champion.
We won, and a large part of me was convinced we’d lose.
My body is humming with residual adrenaline, thinking there’s more. Another shift to skate. Another puck to chase. Another goal to score.
This is the view from the top, and it’s strange to stop climbing. To realize there’s nowhere else to go from here.
It’s pandemonium around me. The ice is littered with the helmets and gloves and sticks that got tossed when the remaining time hit zero and that haven’t been picked up since we shook hands with Fabor. We lifted the trophy and took a team photo, and these are the last few moments before we head to the locker room.
I stare at the scoreboard that registered one of the goals that I scored. When it mattered more than ever before, when I needed to, I came through for my teammates. None of the guys who’ve hugged me so far have mentioned this morning.
Conor is so choked up he can barely talk as he skates toward me. I’m so glad he got a goal too. So relieved he won’t have to wonder if losing this game lost him his shot at the pros. He wraps his arms around me, neither of us saying anything as we hug in the midst of our jubilant teammates.
If I’d missed that goal, I’m not sure I ever would have forgiven myself.
If he’d missed that goal, I’m not sure he ever would have forgiven himself.
Those are the opportunities you never get back.
“I love you, Phillips,” he tells me, slapping my back twice. “That was a hell of a goal.”
