Page 59 of The Parent Playbook
We manage to slap a quick one past the Jacks’ goalie—a slick pass from Dan to Nate, who hammers it home. The crowd erupts, but so does the tension on our bench.
It’s a good start, though I’ve been around long enough to know that early leads can make a team complacent.
By the second period, we’re up 2–1, but I don’t like what I’m seeing. Our passes are getting sloppy, showboating when we should be shoring up our defense. During a break, I pull Doug aside, nodding toward the ice.
“We’re getting cocky out there. Need to tighten it up,” I mutter, watching as one of our forwards misses a crucial check, letting a Jack forward take a dangerous shot on goal.
Doug, arms crossed, follows my gaze, his expression grim. “Agreed. Let’s remind them it’s not only about the highlight reel. We lose focus, and these Jacks will eat us alive.”
I call a timeout, gathering the team around. The rink’s chill seeps through my jacket as I lean in, my voice firm but controlled.
“Listen up! We’ve got a lead, but that doesn’t mean squat if we let up now. Stick to the game plan. Play smart, not flashy. Defense, keep your eyes on their playmakers—no more solo heroics. Forwards, I want quick passes, no puck hogging.”
The guys nod, a few tapping their sticks on the ground, the universal hockey sign of agreement. As they disperse back to the ice, I catch Dan’s eye. He gives me a nod, the kind that says he’s got this, and I believe him.
As the players line up for the face-off, I step back, letting Doug do his thing, but my eyes are glued to the ice, watching every move, every play. This game, it’s more than another notch in the win column; it’s a test of whether we can hold ourselves together when it counts.
The whistle blows, snapping me back to the present, and just like that, we’re back in the fray, the sound of blade against ice filling my ears as we fight to keep our lead.
If it were me skating with them right now, I’d tighten our formation, keep the puck moving fast and low on the ice. Positioning is key. I’d hover near the blue line, keeping an eye out for any breakaway attempts, then swing it back to our forwards, setting up for a clean, crisp assist. The Jacks are too spread in that zone. The rhythm of the game pulses through my bones, even from the sidelines.
That’s when I sense we’re about to lose our lead.
“Tighter!” I scream, seeing a dangerous gap on the wing, but it’s too late. The Jacks are on it like jelly on peanut butter and my stomach drops as a smack on the ice sends the puck flying.
Right into our net.
“Come on!” Doug spins, biting his tongue.
The scoreboard looms overhead, the numbers glaring downat us—2–2. My heart is pounding, a wild drumbeat that syncs up with the crescendo of cheers echoing off the arena walls. The air is electric.
Doug’s face is a mask of desperation as he grips my shoulder, his fingers digging in slightly. “Scotty, it’s time,” he says, urgency lacing his tone. “Get out there and light it up!”
“Doug, I?—”
“This is not up for discussion! It’s in your contract, which I know because I put it there. Now you’ve got five minutes to suit up, leaving you the remainder of the period on the ice to save the Ice Breakers. Do it!”
I don’t think, I run.
I rush into the change room and have my equipment on in three minutes flat. I’m doing everything I can not to let my brain get in the way, or I might just run for the hills.
“Reporting for the ice,” I say to Doug.
He nods, not taking his eyes off the game. “You’re out there in thirty seconds.”
I turn around to see Angel who has slipped down to the bench level, her face lit up as she looks me straight in the eyes.
“This is crazy,” I tell her.
“It’s perfect!” she replies.
“But what if I?—”
I don’t have a chance to finish that doubt. She doesn’t hesitate. With a firmness of a she-wolf, she leans over the wall, grabs my jersey, and her lips crash against mine in a fierce kiss that I don’t quite believe is happening.
“That was for good luck. Now get on that ice,” she commands as something in me lights up, “and make it count!”
That kiss … it was a lightning strike, firing me from the inside out.
