Page 182 of Desperate Pucker
Both teams are playing our asses off, though. We’re all skating faster and fighting harder than we ever have. Because this is our last shot—our last chance to win. And we’re fucking desperate for it.
A knot gnaws at the pit of my stomach. It’s been there this whole game—since the start of the finals, honestly.
My heartbeat kicks up and I make myself take a long, steady breath. It doesn’t help much, not when stress makes every muscle in my body tense.
But underneath all that tension is a flicker of excitement. I finally did it. I’m playing in the Stanley Cup finals. Something that I’ve been dying to do since I started in the league fifteen years ago.
No matter how tonight ends up, I’m grateful that I made it this far.
But I’m still gonna play my fucking ass off and do everything I can to help my team win.
“St. George, you’re up,” Coach Porter calls out.
I hop the barrier onto the ice and get in position for face-off. The second the puck lands, Theo passes it back to Del, who takes off like a flash of lightning.
I take off too, trying to outskate the Wolverines defenseman who’s covering me.
Del is a speed demon, making it to their net faster than I’ve ever seen him go. He shoots the puck, but it bounces off their goalie’s stick. Theo is all over it and takes a shot, but the puck ricochets off the crossbar, landing in the corner.
I make it over before anyone else and snatch it, but that defenseman is on my ass, so I can’t get a clean shot into the net. Sam is the closest to me, so I pass it to him.
He winds up and shoots it. A second later, the puck sails past their goalie and lands at the back of the net.
The home crowd goes nuts as we all scream and surround Sam.
“Hell fucking yeah, man!” I holler.
He grins. “Thanks for the assist.”
A thrill shoots up my spine at being able to help my teammate score.
When I turn around, I spot Maddy in the stands, on her feet, cheering for me.
Her eyes sparkle with pride as she beams at me. My heart aches in my chest. I wouldn’t be here, playing in the finals, if it hadn’t been for her training and her support.
Neither team manages to score in the last minute of the second period. When we head to the locker room for intermission, Coach Porter stands at the center of the room to address us.
“That was a damn good goal, McKesson. Way to get us on the board.” He turns to me. “And that was a hell of an assist, St. George.”
I nod. “Thanks, Coach.”
“One more period, gentleman. Twenty more minutes to the end. I wanna see every single one of you digging deep when you’re on the ice. Every second you’re out there, you’re playing your heart out,” he says. “You know how badly I want to win. I know you want it too. But more than that, I want to see you give it your all. As long as you give every ounce of yourself out there, I don’t care about the outcome. I’ll be proud of all of you. Understood?”
My chest goes tight. I’ve played for a lot of coaches over the years, but Coach Porter is the best. And this is why. Yeah, he’s competitive as hell and wants to win. But he cares more about the integrity of his players. He cares more that we’re playing our very best than he does about winning. And that just makes us want to play harder and win even more.
“Yes, Coach,” we all holler.
Excitement hurtles through me. I feel overwhelmed, nervous, fired up, and more determined than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
I watch from the bench as the puck hits the ice at the start of the third period. A few minutes in, New York manages to sink a shot past Blomdahl, tying up the score.
My nerves kick up. I can sense the uncertainty from everyone on the bench and every time I’m on the ice.
The air in the arena buzzes. The fans are rabid. It’s so damn loud in here. Now that we’re tied, the stakes are even higher. At this point, it’s anyone’s game. Either team could take the win.
An uneasy feeling settles in my gut. No fucking way do I want that to happen.
But as the seconds run out on the clock, the tension and stress amp up.
