Page 120 of Cross-Checked

He gives me a wink, blows Abby a kiss, and skates back to his teammates.

We’re up 3-2 heading into the third period, and so far, it feels like things are going our way. We’re in sync, playing a clean, strong game while St. Louis has made some sloppy mistakes. For the first half of the last period, as I watch our team play their hearts out, I’m feeling great about our chances. Rather than feeling dread whenever St. Louis takes a shot, I let the confidence wash over me.We’ve got this.

And then, it all goes to shit.

Colt goes for a fake shot, and when he realizes his mistake, he plants his skate and pushes off the blade to dive across the crease, sticking his glove out and miraculously catching the puck.

The Rebels fans breathe out a sigh of relief...until Colt doesn’t get up off the ice. The refs skate over to him and then nod toward our bench, and that’s when it’s clear he’s injured. He’s pulling off his glove and blocker, and I glance up at the Jumbotron where the camera has zoomed in on him as he pulls off his mask, and his face is twisted in pain. A few seats down from me, Jules gasps.

“No,” she whimpers, “no, no, no.” On either side of her, Lauren and Audrey plant their hands on her thighs for support, and my heart sinks because I can imagine how she feels. Wanting to rush down the steps, jump the glass, and slide across the ice to him—because it’s exactly how I’d feel if it were Ronan.

My eyes scan the players, and when I find him standing next to Drew at center ice, he’s looking at me, too. Then Walshnudges him with the end of his stick and he turns back to talk to his teammates. They don’t hide their worried looks as Colt grasps his right knee. The trainers come out onto the ice to evaluate him, splint his leg, and help him skate off.

When Hartmann goes in, and I can tell something isn’t right.

The rest of the game is like watching a train wreck, and my body is plagued with wave after wave of nausea as I watch my team fall apart before my eyes.

Hartmann looks like a goalie we just pulled up from the beer league. Our defensemen aren’t doing their job keeping the puck away out of our defensive zone, and shot after shot is fired on Hartmann. He stops the first two, barely, and then one slips between the pipes. Then another, and another.

Before I know it, we’re in the last two minutes of the game, and trailing by two goals. Drew manages to score, bringing us back to life, and the team rallies, threatening St. Louis’s net for the rest of the game...until one of their forwards gets a hold of it and takes off on a breakaway.

He moves right and fakes the shot, and as Hartmann butterflies down to block it, the player takes the puck behind the net and easily slips it into the goal on Hartmann’s opposite side.

When the final buzzer sounds, St. Louis’s players stream onto the ice in celebration, while we hang our heads in shock and dismay. Our fans stand still, stunned, all of us collectively wondering what the hell just happened.

I would expect nothing less from our players than the classy way they line up to shake hands with the other team, despite how the game fell apart so dramatically.

In the weeks to come, I know that we’ll analyze the third period of this game over and over. Even as I immediately start focusing on how we can learn from this game, my heart breaks at the way our players,myplayers, file off the ice, heads hung low.

The victory lap around the rink with each player taking their turn holding the Cup...that should have been us. And maybe next year, it will be.

I take a deep breath, remembering how these men protected my honor, intelligence, and integrity, and cheered for me every step of the way this season. Now, it’s my turn to support them by identifying the cracks that emerged, and fixing them so we can move on to the next season even stronger than we are now.

Epilogue

AJ & McCabe

McCABE

Three weeks later

“You need to stop fucking apologizing,” I tell Hartmann, dropping my voice low so no one at this fancy awards ceremony will hear me. “Shit happens. Shitgameshappen. All you can do is learn from them and move on. You keep living in the past like this and it’s going to fuck with your game.”

His laugh is humorless. “Could my game possibly be any more fucked? And how exactly is this in the past, when every time I turn around another sports pundit is analyzing that third period, and debating how I could possibly have sucked so bad?”

“You did suck,” I say, because there’s nothing good that will come of trying to cover up that truth. “But it was half a period, in one game. It doesn’t mean you suck as a goalie?—”

“Right, just Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals, no big deal.”

“Listen, there’s no two ways about it—it was a big deal. But you’re still early in your career. You’re still learning andgrowing as a player. Don’t let it fuck with your head. Learn from it. Whatever had you so distracted, cut that shit right out of your life,” I say, but the look on his face has me realizing that whatever it is, he’s not cutting it out of his life. “Or learn how to keep that shit off the ice.Everyonehas bad games. I had two of them in the playoffs, and both were because I was too focused on AJ and Abby. I had to learn how to compartmentalize when I was on the ice.”

I don’t know if whatever’s distracting Luke is something important, or if his inexperience was why we lost Game 7.

Then, he looks over my shoulder, and his eyes light up. I turn to see what he’s looking at, and entering this huge venue are Coach Wilcott, his wife Helene, and his daughter Evangeline—who I now know is Hartmann’s best friend. But he’s not looking at her like she’s his best friend; he’s looking at her the same way half the guys in this room are—like he wants to peel that dark green dress off her.

“Dude,” I say, as I turn back toward him. “Wipe that look off your face. If Coach catches you looking at his daughter that way...”

His head snaps toward me. “I wasn’t looking at heranyway.”

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