Page 1 of Like A Daydream
Andrew
He looks up at the clock from his spot on the bench as the Rangers send the puck flying up the boards. Coach is yelling at the top of his lungs, orders that the team can’t hear from how loud the fans are and how loud the action on the ice is.
Andrew’s heart is racing, adrenaline up from the speed of the game, from what’s at stake, from his leadership of the team. He’s brought them this far, and he wants this win more than anything.
“Short shifts!” Coach yells, voice cracking over the noise of the crowd. “Forty seconds.”
He’s reminding them of his original call when there had been five minutes left in the game, but now the final minute is ticking away and they’re down by one to tie it and send them into overtime. This is a must-win game to force a game five and start a dramatic comeback.
This is the first Stanley Cup Final that North Carolina has been in since ’06, and the pressure has never been higher. They’re a quietly successful team, one of the best in the league, but people tend to write them off in favor of Boston or Chicago. Even Dallas has gotten more attention than them in the last two years.
The fans have never been more on edge, or louder, and the energy in the arena has never been this electric. Not since Andrew has started playing, at least.
He woke up this morning and dry-heaved into the sink before getting ready for morning skate in Seattle, where they were playing the championship. People had bought tickets, gotten rooms, flown across the country to watch them, and they had gone into the first period determined not to let their fans down.
They had been playing at a level he hadn’t seen from them in a long time, and as their captain that says a lot. He sees them at their best and at their worst, whether that’s on the ice or on film afterwards.
When he had looked at each of them in the locker room this morning he had known in his soul that this team could win a Stanley Cup.
“Go!” Coach yells, and Andrew is on his feet, hopping over the boards and yelling for Petrov. Petrov skates toward him lightning fast to get off the ice in time, and Andrew doesn’t stop to hit his shoulder the way he normally does.
The second he hits the ice he’s off, moving to open space while covering who he’s supposed to. He never stops skating, making sure his guys can get to him when they need to pass him the puck. Careful to stay onside when he’s over their line.
He’s a defender, has played defense for his entire career, but that hasn’t stopped him from scoring when he can, or at least getting the assist. He’s one of the highest scoring D-men in the league for a reason.
“Here, here, here!” He yells, skating as fast as he can to get to open ice.
He’s tired, they’re all tired, and it’s showing. The Rangers are outskating them as the puck moves around the ice and hits the blade of his forward, Griffin Oher’s, stick.
Oher hits the puck into the space just in front of Andrew.
He gets possession, breaks away from the defense line and suddenly it’s just him and the goalie.
It’s a perfect scenario.
He lines up the shot, raises his stick, hits the puck. It’s the miracle goal that’s going to get them into over-time and then they’ll claw their way back to a victory.
The shot goes wide.
The clock goes off.
The Stanley Cup dream dies.
The crowd starts chanting something that sounds like “Fuck you Fisher!” and he collapses onto the ice.
Andrew shoots awake with a gasp, cold sweat dripping down his forehead. He breathes through his nose, out from his mouth, trying to slow his heart rate before he looks up into the dark of his room.
What did his therapist say last week?
Five things he can see:night stand, book he was reading, blankets, hands, lamp.
Four things he can touch:blankets, arms, face, hair.
Three things he can hear:sirens, breathing, his dog’s nails on the floor.
Two things he can smell:sweat, laundry detergent.
One thing he can taste:the salt of his panicked tears.
