Page 48 of The Fake Husband Play
Before I can answer, the door bangs open and Coach Merwood stalks in, looking like a linebacker wrestled into a suit, with his beard freshly trimmed in honor of the occasion.
“Quiet,” he calls out. “Butts on benches, ears open.”
The room goes quiet instantly.
Even Nix pulls out his earbuds, knowing better than to engage with his “device” in front of our old-school leader. Merwood is relatively chill for a head coach, but he’s been known to toss a phone in the urinal if a player makes the mistake of glancing at his screen in a meeting.
Now, he stands in the center of the room, letting his gaze sweep over us, drawing us in with the twitching of his thick brows above his steady gaze. “Twenty years ago, this city didn’t even have an ice rink worth a damn. Kids who wanted to play hockey had to fight like hell to learn the game. Now look where we are.” He spreads his arms, encompassing the state-of-the-art facility around us. “Opening night. NHL hockey inNew Orleans, best city in the world.”
We cheer, Parker and I louder than the rest, because we feel the truth of that in our bones.
New Orleans is our wild, fierce, joyful, haunted, hopeful, not-going-down-without-a-fight home, and we’re ready to show her she raised us right.
“You boys are about to make history. You’re ready, you’re focused, you’re primed to give these people a game they won’t forget,” Merwood says, what looks like a smile hidden in that glorious beard. “Now get out there and make me proud.”
The locker room erupts with fresh cheers, fists pounding helmets and shoulders, sticks slapping the floor. We head for the tunnel, buzzing, hearts drumming in sync. Halfway down, another wall of noise slams into us, this time from the fans. Twenty thousand people packed in tight, drunk on hope, primed for the Voodoo to make them fall in love with this game.
As we step onto the ice, the rink gleams—pristine, perfect, waiting for us to carve our story into it.
Our victory.
Fuck bad luck and jinxes and evil eyes. We’re going to win tonight. I refuse to settle for anything less, not with all my favorite girls here to cheer me on.
I’m going to give them a night they’ll always remember.
“Réveillez les lwa,” I shout as we wheel toward the bench to a roar that shakes the building.
It’s the Voodoo’s slogan—wake the spirits—an homage to our city and the supernatural level of hell we’re about to unleash on the Outlaws.
What follows is everything good hockey should be. Fast, brutal, unrelenting, beautiful. We trade chances with the Outlaws, both teams flying. The crowd loses itsmind with every hit. Parker’s everywhere at once, relentless on the forecheck. Blue plays like a man possessed, reading every rush before it forms, sticking his big frame in the passing lanes. And Nix, cool and surgical, picks off two odd-man rushes that could have ended ugly.
Even Torrance, after a shaky first shift where he whiffs on a clear and nearly coughs up a goal, settles down. By the end of the first, he’s stepping up, pinching at the blue line to keep pucks alive, feeding me slick little passes down low.
When I score off Parker’s incredible feed midway through the first—threading it through two defenders right onto my tape—I swear I can pick out Mimi’s scream from thousands of others. The goal comes at the perfect time. We’d been hemmed in our zone for nearly two minutes, the Outlaws swarming like angry wasps, testing if we’d crack. But we didn’t. Martineau stood on his head, swallowing pucks like a damn black hole. We bent, we scrambled, we threw our bodies in front of pucks like grenades—Jean-Louis sprawled out to block a one-timer that had goal written all over it—and when Blue finally chipped it up the boards, I was already flying. Trusting he’d find me.
He did. He always does.
The second period gets nastier. The Outlaws realize we’re not going to roll over, so they start taking liberties—a slash here, a sneaky cross-check there. Trying to get under our skin. Jean-Louis takes a questionable boarding call that has me screaming at the ref, but we kill it off with Parker selling out to block three shots in a row. He limps back to the bench like a warrior, chest heaving.
“You good?” I ask as he collapses beside me.
“Fuck no,” he gasps, grinning through the pain. “But we’re winning this fucking game.”
And we do. When Parker buries one late in the second—a greasy goal off a scramble in the blue paint—I catch him pointing up at the stands. His family’s all here, split into different sections, but still united in love for their boy.
The third period is pure grind. Protect the lead, weather their push, trust our structure. Nix and Blue are a wall, keeping things simple, hammering clears, punishing every Outlaw who gets within ten feet of Capo. Our goalie is locked in, swallowing rebounds, tracking every puck through screens like he’s got X-ray vision.
It’s organized chaos when their coach pulls the goalie with two minutes left. Sticks clash, bodies crash, the roar of the crowd surges and fades like the tide. But we trust each other. Everybody knows their job. Everybody does it. When I get the puck on my stick with thirty seconds left and a clear lane, there’s no hesitation. I bury the empty-netter from center ice.
We win four to two, a statement victory that says we’re not just happy to be here. We’re here to compete.
We’re here tolaissez les bons temps rouler.
After the handshake line—every one of us dripping sweat, half-smiling through exhaustion—and after the three stars ceremony (I’m second, Parker first, Blue third), I shower in record time. Practically jog to the family waiting area, adrenaline still buzzing, the post-win high making everything sharper, brighter.
And then I see them—my girls—and the high gets alittle sweeter. Mimi’s the first to spot me and launches herself in my direction like a tiny missile.
“Gee, you were so good!” she squeals as I swoop her up into a hug. “I cheered so loud when you scored, did you hear me?”
