Page 95 of Drop the Mitts

The crowd roared. Grace was somewhere in the VIP section. He needed to see her. It was the first time in his life that he was anxious to get off the ice.

Second period, he and Jack played the point together and orchestrated a filthy one-timer. Curtis chipped it from behind the net, Jack caught it mid-air and dropped it to André, who rifled it low glove side. The crowd went nuclear.

“That’s what happens.” Jack skated by the bench. “Now give us the sexy line change.”

“I’ve had better passes from my wife,” Country muttered, but couldn’t hide his smirk.

By the third period, it was tied. Four to four.

Colin Fraser from Toronto fed André a look on a line rush—sneaky, sharp. He took the charge even though he was typically a fourth-line grinder. Their D-men were slightly out of position, giving him a chance if he bolted.

He deked once, then twice, and went top shelf while falling to his knees. Absolute highlight reel shit. The goal horn blared, and André fist-pumped to the crowd, lungs burning, legs on fire. He hoped to hell Grace was watching.

They’d spent the night together at Country’s but couldn’t ditch their responsibilities leading up to the game. He’d seen her twice over the week, and neither visit had been long enough. There was still a part of him that wondered if she’d close up and get scared, but every time that thought entered his head, he remembered Country.

He knew his reasons. And it was worth fighting for whether or not he won. Just like every single time he got on the ice.

Brett crowed from behind him, “Where was that in Edmonton?”

André struck a pose, then threw himself over the boards.

The final seconds of the third period ticked down, and the roar of the crowd rose as fans surged to their feet. Five to four. They only had to hold them.

For a moment, the whole event snapped into focus. They were in the Saddledome playing to a packed crowd. He had no idea what the numbers looked like, but ticket sales alone pushed them close to their goal.

André bent over his stick, lungs burning, sweat stinging his eyes. He glanced at Country on the far wing and Tyler at the point, waiting for the drop.

Face-off. Ten seconds left. The puck hit the ice, and everything blurred. Country snapped it back, and Tyler took off like he’d been shot out of a cannon. Two strides. Three. He flicked it back to Cade Bishop who tapped it on to Brett, and Boyd wasn’t ready for the back door. Brett fired a wrister, and it snapped past the post.

The crowd exploded. Tied.

André shook his head, slamming his stick to the ice. Country grabbed Tyler around the neck, and their entire bench emptied, howling, pounding each other on the back.

He couldn’t have asked for a better game. It was sudden-death overtime. Ten minutes. One goal.

They didn’t wait long. Two minutes in, Fly sent a pass along the boards to Suraj who gave a one-touch to Jack Harrison. André leaned over the boards, screaming nonsense.

Jack lost the puck to Tyler but reached out at the last second and sent the puck around the back of the net. Fraser was set uplike they’d planned it. He snagged the puck and looped it around the post.

He took off, pumping his stick over his head, and the dome went nuclear. André launched over the boards like a rocket, joining the dogpile around Jack and Colin. Gloves and helmets hit the ice, and it wasn’t long before both teams were laughing and hugging at centre. They honoured their goalies, lining up and slapping sticks on the ice as they made their way to the benches.

Jenna stepped out on a mat in front of the penalty box a few minutes later, Hope strapped to her chest, a mic in her hand and a wide smile on her face. “We want to thank you,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “Every single one of you here tonight helped us raise money for a cause that means the world to our family. To our team.”

The Jumbotron lit up behind her, a montage rolling—footage prepared byHeads Up Alberta. Clips of youth hockey and players rehabilitating never failed to tug on heartstrings.

“And thanks to your support and our incredible sponsors . . . ” Jenna paused for dramatic effect. “We raised $407,800!”

The dome lost its damn mind. Country skated up and pulled her and Hope into a bear hug. André got choked up, then lifted his head searching for the one person he wanted to see after a game like this.

He beelined to the locker room and showered in three minutes flat. André towel-dried his hair, yanked on his jeans and a hoodie, and grabbed his phone. He fired off three pictures to Luc of the pregame. Jenna hired a videographer for the game, so he’d send on footage later. He texted:

Tonight was hot. Blasted past our fundraising goals. Love you, bud

André checked his reflection in the mirror, raked a hand through his wet hair, and grabbed his bag. Then he bolted for the elevators.

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The hallway upstairs near the press room felt muted compared to what had just happened on the ice. He didn’t even make it to the door before Grace bolted out. She ran to him in her heels.

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