Page 103 of The One Night Dash
I smirk. The triple exclamation points indicate that she’s genuinely excited … I hope, anyway, even though I’m not.
Me
You know I will.
I toss my phone in the locker and sit down to find my calm before the storm, even when the locker room is buzzing around me. Noise, pain, pressure, it doesn’t break me, never has.
When I open my eyes and allow the noise to creep back in, everyone is packing up their loose ends, and I feel the usual pregame adrenaline prickle under my skin, but it’s managed.
Faulker is digging into his granola bar like it’s his last meal. Killer is bench-pressing his stick for luck. Coach D walks in and nods to Leo Stone, who stands up, claps his hands, and the room goes dead silent.
“We win this, we win tomorrow, and we go into Thanksgiving with a little more to be thankful for. Everyone got that?”
The answer is a chorus of low, primal grunts that could signify agreement or readiness to strike. Stone nods, satisfied, and the room starts to move as one, the ancient ballet of athletes preparing for the slaughter.
We march down the tunnel, the echo of skates on concrete a heartbeat I’ve known since I was old enough to get on the ice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to a thrilling night of action between our Brooklyn Bears and the Vancouver Vortex, here at Costello Arena!”
The tunnel opens onto the rink, the roar of the crowd a living, writhing beast. I step onto the ice and feel the cold bite, the glide, the possibility of violence, glory, and everything in between.
“Are you ready for some hockey?” the announcer bellows, and the crowd answers in unison, a sound that rattles my bones and makes me feel, for the briefest second, like nothing bad can touch me here. “It’s time to get loud, get on your feet, and show some love for your Brooklyn Bears!”
“Moretti.” Coach D nods to the front. “You’re up here.”
“Right.” He looks at me. “She changed shit up.”
I smile at Koa. “Plot twist.”
Koa nods. “Moretti is starting in goal, which is where he belongs. He’s put in the time.”
When Costello sent Johnson down, he pulled Hank Marshall, who Dean Costello refuses to call by name, and it caught on.Everyone calls him Williams Junior. Fucker’s good. He played with us at Lincoln.
When he skates back to us, I expect him to be a little butthurt, but he’s grinning.
“You good?” Koa asks.
“Am I good?” He laughs. “Fuck yes. I’m home, man.”
We warm up, and I stick to routine. I don’t even allow myself to look up, not yet anyway. But when the anthem begins, my eyes are on my girl; my mom next to her, smiling; my sisters already best friends with her—I can see it from here.
Mom and Noelle both point to their eyes, and then at the rink.
“What the fuck is that, man? Some synchronized focus voodoo?” Killer laughs.
I watch as they realize they’d done the same damn thing, reminding me where my head needs to be at the same time. Their heads fall back in laughter, and then they fucking hug.
“Nah, man, that’s fate and karma joining hands, or God’s way of telling me I’m where I am supposed to be.”
Koa elbows me. “She looks good in your number.”
“She certainly does.”
“Perfect,” Coach D says from behind me. “Now get your fucking head in the game, Loverboy.”
The puck is in play, and all the noise, nerves, and family drama collapse into one singular focus: win.
From the jump, Vancouver is playing dirty, elbows high and sticks higher, and Stone gets railed on jump. Vancouver makes it clear from the first face-off that no one is leaving this game without a bruise. Giulietti answers using his body as a human battering ram, and their center is sprawled out on the ice.
