Page 187 of The Blame Game

Energy coursed through Dom as they stood for the national anthems, a thrumming excitement and anticipation, a focused dedication and hunger that made his body feel like it was vibrating.

There was nothing like playoff hockey.

Dom could hardly sit still on the bench as the puck dropped, Dustin gaining possession immediately, slapping the puck toward Boston’s net.

Boston was ready for it though, battling to get it to Toronto’s end of the ice.

On the bench, Dom held his breath through several shifts, but on the second one, Nico made a beautiful pass toward Yates, who smashed it into the net like the puck had done something to personally offend him, the goal horn lighting up and making the crowd roar.

The team cheered on the bench, Dom hugging his boys hard, hope sizzling through him.

The first goal was often the hardest and they’d done it.

“Keep it up!” Gilly yelled.

Dom waited impatiently until his next shift, flying over the boards to take his place on the ice, skating like it was the beginning of the season, and not the end.

The weeks of rest and rehab had done him good and he was dialed in, ready to take on the world.

Boston played with a ferocity that Dom hadn’t seen in the previous games but he won his puck battles and made scoring chances and he felt good when he came off the ice, watching intently as the first line went out again.

It didn’t matter that Dom was no longer the one leading that top line, that he was only a small piece of the team now. He was a part of it and that was all that mattered.

They were still at 1-0 when the first period ended.

In the next period, Jonah managed a second goal and Jordan a third and Dom could hardly hear himself think over the noise of the crowd when they took the ice for the third period.

But Boston was playing with renewed fire.

One of their players took down Erik Jensen three minutes in and he limped to the bench, flexing his knee as Eddie crouched down to take a look at it.

When Dom went over the boards for his next shift, one of his wingers—a Black Ace who showed some real promise—went flying down the ice on a breakaway toward Boston’s net but was taken out on a hard hit from one of Boston’s D-men, an obvious tripping penalty and elbow to the head if Dom had ever seen one.

But there was no whistle from the refs and Dom seethed as he battled for the puck along the boards.

“That was fucking bullshit,” he called out to Connor O’Shea, Boston’s captain.

“It’s not my fault your guys can’t stay on their feet,” he said through gritted teeth, elbowing Dom in the ribs.

Dom refused to be baited and when he was finally able to snag the puck, he snapped it toward Felix, who wheeled around the back of the net, tangling with one of Boston’s players.

Felix held on though, shooting the puck to Dom’s other winger—a young call-up who shoved the disc in the net with a desperate grunt.

Dom slammed into him, hollering his appreciation, reaching out to jostle Felix’s helmet in celebration when he skated over to join the celly.

“Fucking right!” Dom shouted. “Keep it up! Keep it up!”

Dom’s next few shifts were uneventful, but when he went out for the next one, he was out on the ice with O’Shea again, who seemed determined to single-handedly put his team on his back and win this game.

Not on my watch, Dom thought grimly. He skated after O’Shea, thighs burning, sweat dripping into his eyes as he wheeled around the net. Connor was a high-scoring forward, and Dom was determined to keep him from shifting the momentum of the game with a well-timed goal.

The Fisher Cats were ahead 3-0 but there was nothing guaranteed with over fourteen minutes left in the game.

A moment later, O’Shea got the puck and tore down the ice on a breakaway. Dom swore and took off after him, too slow to have any hope of catching up to him, but trying anyway. Matty came out of nowhere, barreling in like a freight train and O’Shea went flying, sliding feet first into the net, the puck still on his stick.

There was a scramble as Webber battled to keep the puck out, the net going flying and Jesse landing on top of O’Shea’s prone body as the ref’s whistle sounded.

The crowd went wild as Dom skated over, worried about their goalie.

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