Page 135 of Puck Your Feelings
"Right."
"Totally won't be distracted at all."
"Not even a little."
We're both lying.
***
THE ARENA'S PACKED—every seat filled, the energy electric in that specific way that only happens on opening night.
Fresh start. Clean slate. Anything's possible.
I spot Mateo in the stands during warmups, sitting next to Washington's wife, Leila. Both wearing matching "Ice Cold Takes" hoodies that Becker had custom-made. Mateo waves, and I nod in acknowledgment before Becker skates past and blows an exaggerated kiss toward the stands.
"Focus," I tell him.
"I am focused. Focused on looking good for the camera."
"There are twelve cameras."
"Then I'm twelve times as focused."
The game starts, and whatever silliness we had in the locker room evaporates the second the puck drops. We fall into sync immediately—Becker reading my positioning, me anticipating his moves. Two defensemen operating as one unit.
Denver's fast, aggressive. They come at us hard in the first period, testing our new lines, looking for weaknesses. But we hold. Becker breaks up a two-on-one with a perfectly timed poke check. I clear the zone three times in ninety seconds.
The period ends scoreless.
Second period, Groover scores on a wrist shot that beats their goalie high glove side. The arena erupts. Mateo's on his feet screaming, Leila pumping her fist.
Denver answers back. Then scores again.
Third period. Tied 3-3 with four minutes left.
This is it. This is where games are won or lost.
Denver's pushing hard, smelling blood. Their center carries the puck into our zone with speed, looking for the cross-ice pass. I read it before he commits.
I step up, intercept at the blue line, and immediately pivot.
Becker's already moving, breaking toward neutral ice. I hit him with a pass that lands perfectly on his tape, and he's gone—using that deceptive speed to burn past their defenseman.
He carries it into their zone, draws two defenders, then slides it across to Groover, who's crashing the net.
Groover doesn't hesitate. One-timer. Top shelf.
The goal horn blares.
4-3.
The arena loses its collective mind.
***
POST-GAME LOCKER room is chaos—everyone high, riding the adrenaline of a season-opening win. Music's blasting, guys are chirping each other, and someone's started a tradition of dumping water bottles on whoever scored the game-winner.
Groover's soaked and loving every second.
