Page 110 of Shift Change

Adrenaline was still screaming through my veins when we lined up in the circle. Game five, first round, up three-one in the series. One more win, and we’d punch our ticket to the second round, but there was no margin for error against a team like Montreal. Every move counted.

Painter, Montreal’s center, crouched low over the dot, twitchy and coiled like a viper. He struck as soon as the ref dropped the puck, snapping it to his left wing.Fuck.I turned to chase, and the crowd roared in the stands. The whole damn rink blurred as bodies collided, blades screeched, and sticks clattered.

Packy was already on the Lynx winger, cutting him off before he could find open ice. The guy panicked and spun the puck back to Painter, who was bolting toward our zone like he had a rocket strapped to his ass. I pivoted, but Painter was slippery as hell, weaving through the neutral zone with our D closing in from both sides.

Abby cut across and nailed Painter with a textbook shoulder check as he crossed our blue line. It was clean, hard, and beautiful. The puck slammed into the boards and died there, but we all raced toward it like sharks in bloody water.

I got there a split second after Abby, who dug out the puck and peeled off toward center ice. Logan soared up the left side, and I burned it through the middle, shouting for a pass. Abby dumped it forward, where it ricocheted off a Lynx skate to Riley’s stick, and then somehow back to Abby again.

There were no whistles, which meant no room to breathe. This was playoff hockey, and the refs didn’t like to stop the game unless they had to.

Abby threaded a pass to Logan, who tapped it over to Riley with one touch. Riley zoomed toward the slot but found himself boxed in by Painter and a Lynx defenseman. With nowhere to go and maybe half a second to think, he spun and dropped the puck behind him, straight to me.

Everything shifted into slow motion. Painter lunged at me, but I jinked left, cut right, and flew past him. The goalie squared up, and I tensed as a man appeared nearby, only relaxing when I caught a flash of red. I faked high, dragged the puck low, and snapped a wrister so fast my stick stung from the release. The red light flared, and the horn blew air in one long, triumphant blare.

For an instant, the world was pure white noise, then the roar hit me like a tidal wave. Fans leapt to their feet, pounding the glass, screaming themselves hoarse. The whole building shook with the kind of deafening, delirious joy that rattled in my chest and turned my blood into electricity.

* * *

The locker room after the game was mayhem in the best way. Everyone was half-dressed and yelling, trying to be heard over the blasting music. No one had scored in the third period, so our 3–2 lead stood. We’d closed out our series against Montreal and locked down our spot in round two.

When somebody shouted, “Fuck Bethesda,” a chill ran up my spine. We’d be facing the Barracudas in game one in a few days, and I wasn’t looking forward to playing Nick Johnson and his band of brothers. Those guys were still sore because we beat them in last year’s second round, and I had a feeling they were sharpening their skates with our names engraved in the steel.

But that was a worry for another day. Tonight was about victory. Chuck caught my eye from across the room and gave a tiny nod—one of our wordless cues—and I nodded back. Operation Post-Game Chaos was officially greenlit. We’d prepared for it in a comedic series of hand signals and silent trips to buy beer and food, and we followed the same procedure to let the guys know what we were doing. Our traditional “boys only” victory party was on, and Chuck and I were hosting. No one had said a word before tonight, because talking about a victory party before you clinch would be begging for a jinx. That’s how you end up with a loss and a kitchen full of cheese dip you’re too depressed to eat. Tonight, it was Warriors only, and shit was about to get loud.

We hadn’t been home for five minutes when Harpy, Gabe, and Brody arrived. We had everything set up downstairs, and while we sat around enjoying drinks and food, it was Chuck’s place—as the rookie, it reallywashis job—to bring the new arrivals down. In between, we cuddled up and swapped stories with our friends. Gabe and Brody got into some serious eye-fucking—did they seriously think none of us noticed?—and excused themselves. They went upstairs, but the bathroom they chose was right over where we were sitting, and as only brothers can, we laughed our asses off while we listened to one of them railing the absolute shit out of the other.

“Gabe gives and Brody takes,” Riley said with an air of authority.

Abby shrugged. “Maybe both give and take. None of our business.”

“I can believe it—the Brody taking it part,” Blunt said. “He’s a big D-man and all, but I’m a blueliner too, and I can tell you we have our gentle sides.”

“How the fuck would you know who pitches and catches, Riley?” Nels asked. “Did they give you a front-row seat or something?”

“Iknow,” Riley said, “because Brody and I went out drinking one night when Gabe was at an event. Brody had too many martinis and accidentally let it slip.”

Packy looked like someone had told him Earth was flat. “Brody got drunk? I’ve never seen him drunk.”

I couldn’t resist joining in. “Brody’s no saint, my friend. Just between us, they took Harpy and me to dinner last year, and Brody jerked Gabe off under the table in the middle of the fucking restaurant.”

“We know,” Blunt said. “Harpy told us in the group chat.”

“What group chat?” I was confused because I didn’t recall seeing anything about it.

Harpy spoke right up. “You must’ve missed it. Maybe it was a night when you were out with one of your exes.”

“That’s it,” Packy said. “I think I remember that night, back when you were dating the platinum blonde.”

“Probably,” I said, still not convinced. I always read through the group chats I missed.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chuck said, patting my leg. “Want me to jerk you off under a table?”

His lips demanded a little warming up, and while the guys were oohing and aahing, I whispered, “Hell yes, but not with these bastards around.”

A loud thump came from upstairs, followed by a second one and a lot of suspiciously enthusiastic noise. Everything went quiet after that, which made it worse. Since I’d often made the same kind of racket myself, I could only hope they’d wipe down the bathroom before they came back.

When they reappeared, both seemed vaguely put off that we were laughing. Gabe tried for nonchalance, but with his shirt inside out and his lips freshly mauled, it didn’t work. Brody’s cowlick was doing its own walk of shame. Would it have killed him to use a comb?

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