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The ref gets between us.
“Come on, Teller. Don’t start shit,” he warns.
“I’m not starting shit. All I said was thank you!” This official and I are on a first name basis. He’s a nice guy, a solid skater, and makes fair calls. I respect him, even if he’s had to escort me off the ice more than a handful of times.
“Well, don’ttryto start shit.”
Gilles skates off, and I lift my shoulders and show my palms.
“I’m not trying to, Bob! You know me better than all these refs. Have I ever made trouble on the ice? I’m simply making friends, that’s all... Gilles is just pissed because he woke up and realized his face looks like that.”
Ref looks down, smiling. “Teller, I love you, but if you chirp the other players and create issues for me, I’m gonna run ya.”
“Aww, I love you too, Bob!” I smile and skate off. He really does love me.
Spirits are up. Lonan and Rhys are working defense, dekeing and checking like their lives depend on it, to keep it away from Strassburg in the net.
“Get it the fuck outta there!!” Teddy yells next to me on the bench.
“Heads up! Heads up!” I shout when they start losing control. Rhys is already ahead of me, gets it away, and sends it around the back of the net to Jonesy. Neither team can keep it on one end long enough, which means everybody iscovering ground like a goddamn bag skate, accomplishing nothing. We made two shots on goal, each ending with a disappointed “Oh!” from the fans. Florida’s goalie is on his A game tonight.
The next intermission, I check my phone, and Jordan has sent me a couple text messages. The first few came in after my goal. The last one says,I love you, I’m proud of you, and I’ll see you on the ice.
I’m too nervous to make any assumptions about seeing her on the ice later, but Jordan prefers to say those things out loud to manifest them into real life. I’ll take all the help we can get. I text her I love her, and tuck my phone in my bag.
Making yourself drink water when your nerves are stretched thin and you feel as if you could vomit at any moment is no easy task, but we all force it down before we go back out there.
Third period. Tied game. Anything could happen. We all take our time to visualize, focus, and rub our lucky charms. Coach doesn’t say a word or interrupt us until it’s time to leave the tunnel. His speech is short and sweet: “Let’s give our fans a game they’ll never forget.”
Back on the bench, a few guys pick up the smelling salts to get their adrenaline kicks. We’re exhausted and running on fumes in our final period.
After the puck drop, it remains neck and neck for most of the period. We’re on pins and needles, if it weren’t for the fatigue, I don’t think any of us would sit on the bench right now. We’re all waiting to see what happens. I look up at the WAGs box, and Jordan blows me a kiss. I send one back.Barrett’s right, it’s hard not to look up at your woman.
During each of my shifts this period, Florida’s bench has been chirping like a goddamn choir loft, desperate to throw us off our game. A few guys, myself included, have joined in.We’re itching to throw a punch, but neither team is willing to risk a power play against the other. It’s too late in the game.
Jonesy’s knee bounces next to me as he fidgets. “Fuck, dude. Somebody hold my hand. I can’t take this pressure.” He groans, grabbing my glove. I let him. I’m barely holding it together myself. Unfortunately, it’s looking like we’re gonna end up in overtime.
Florida swaps out their players, and two of their best defensemen take the ice. Coach responds by swapping our offense line with Barrett, Jonesy, and me. We do a quick line swap and prepare for the worst. 02:13 left in the game.
“Let’s pull a fuckin’ Sully,” Jones says, jumping the boards.
A few seasons ago, Sully made the filthiest of filthy goals, and it’s forever gone down in team history as one of the greatest plays to come out of the Lakes. After that game, we made Sully recreate it so we could all get a chance at it. It was difficult to master, but we’d bust it out to fuck with our goaltenders during practice every once in a while. I grin and nod. What the hell, we’re probably hitting overtime anyway. If the opportunity presents itself, I’m down.
Their defense is all over us when we cross the blue line. They’ve got a big guy, and he checks me into the wall. Not the cleanest of hits, but I’ll let it by.
Jonesy gains possession and slips it to me behind him. In my peripheral, Barrett closes in on the net. I rush the goalie in the opposite direction and transition on a dime, skating in the opposite direction and flip the puck up in the air, pulling away from the net at the last second. Barrett plucks it out of midair with his stick and deflects it, throwing the puck into a different trajectory, and right into the net before it even hits the ice.
3-2.
Pure chaos.
The horn blows, and we pile onto Barrett, slapping his helmet and screaming. Adrenaline courses through us. A couple rubber ducks are tossed onto the ice, a tradition created by fans, as they prepare for the win. Our bench is going nuts. The arena is exploding with energy.
I flag my buddy the referee and point to the puck while Jonesy’s got his arms around me. Bob nods, snagging it up and dropping it off with Coach. Glancing up, Jordan is in the box jumping up and down with my parents, my sisters, and the other wives—her friends—by her side.
“Let’s finish this!”
Rhys, Lonan, Barrett, and I stay on the ice. Jonesy is swapped with Burmeister, who plays defense but we’re putting him in a forward position so we can better protect Kapucik, our goalie. All we need to do is defend our net for the next ninety seconds, and it’s ours.
