Page 97 of Lucky
Not now.
Not when the playoffs are on the line and we’re one goal away from clinching our spot.
Then it happens.
A bad pass from their right wing, just sloppy enough to become an opportunity.The puck clips off his teammate’s skate and pops loose near the blue line.
I’m on it in a blink.
Stick down.One clean intercept.
My brain stops thinking.Instinct takes over.It’s just angles, pressure and timing now.
I pivot hard, cutting left, and their D-man—number 47—hesitates for half a second too long.I blow past him like he’s stuck in slush.Anders comes up on my right, calling for the puck, but I don’t dish it.
Because I see it.
The opening.A seam between both defenders, just wide enough to thread a prayer through.
Ten seconds.
The goalie reads me a little too early—he shifts weight toward the post, his glove hand twitching upward.That’s all I need.
I drop my shoulder, sell the move like I’m cutting inside, and then flick my wrist—quick, sharp, surgical.The puck lifts.
Glove side.
Top shelf.
The sound it makes when it hits the net is a perfect snap.
The horn blares because the puck is in and it’s game over for San Diego.
The crowd erupts, a split-second delay before the noise crashes down around me.Not cheers of delight because we’re in enemy territory.Groans from the home fans and a few boos punctuated by shouts from the tiny pocket of Titans fans in the upper level.My teammates explode off the bench, helmets flying, gloves tossed.
Adrenaline floods through me.I throw my arms wide, coasting into the corner with a wild grin on my face as the guys swarm.
Anders hits me first, hard and fast.“You greedy bastard!”he yells, laughing.
Van grabs me in a headlock, shaking my helmet like a bobblehead.“I fucking love you!”
I can’t stop smiling.My chest feels like it might crack open from the inside out.We did it.
The Titans are going to the playoffs and my streak’s still alive.Every year since I got drafted, I’ve made the postseason and part of that has to be due to luck.
But this playoff clinch?It hits different.
Because somewhere, back in Pittsburgh, Winnie’s probably watching.
Maybe she’s at her parents’ house curled up on the couch, laughing with Sadie and eating too much popcorn.Or maybe she’s alone with Buttermilk passed out across her lap, wearing those ridiculous llama pajamas.She’d have her phone in hand, scrolling social media and catching the highlight clip before the game even ends.
Either way… she saw it.
And for the first time in my life, the win doesn’t feel complete because of the stats or the stakes.It feels complete because someone who knows me—not just the hockey part, but all the in-between parts—is cheering for me.Even when I’m three thousand miles away.
♦
The locker roomis as much a party as one can have when on the road.
