Page 74 of Say It Isn't Snow
“You’ve got this!”
Her confidence in me fires me up. I push off the boards and ride the boost all the way to puck drop when the game begins.
I win the first face-off against Pittsburgh.
It feels damn good moving the puck down the ice passing to Theo and Howell as they flank me. Howell’s shot on the net gets blocked, but Theo picks up the rebound and out skates Pittsburgh’s defense.
His deke to me works in his favor and he sends a wrister across the goal line for our first point.
“Hell yeah!” He pumps his fist in the air, bumping it against mine between plays.
My line completely dominates the game every time our shift is up. I haul myself over the boards and don’t stop moving until it’s time for the next line to take over. When I’m out, I’m watching gameplay like a hawk.
We’re up by one point going into third period and I don’t want to give up the lead.
Pittsburgh fights us hard, not ready to call it quits during the last minutes of the game. We’re locked in a brutal back and forth that takes us from one end of the rink to the other. Neither team scores.
Howell and one of our D-men get the puck far enough out to give us an advantage.
“Go!” I yell, flying with them.
Howell flicks the puck to me before he’s checked. Pittsburgh’s center slams into me. I move the puck to Theo and get to the scoring zone.
Theo passes back to me when I’m open with seconds to spare on the clock. Defense is creeping in on my right to close off my options for an easier shot.
I don’t back down yet, my muscles burning with instinctive competitiveness. The goalie thinks I’m going left.
Smirking, I angle to make it look like I am, changing directions at the last second to drive the puck down the center when the goalie slides to the spot he thought I’d shoot from. The puck sails past him into the crease.
The lamp lights up and the crowd goes wild.
Dazed as adrenaline courses through me, I stare at the final score. 3-0. A fucking shutout for our first official game.
Holy shit. I haven’t played a shutout in—christ, I can’t remember. Not when I was on either of the other NHL teams I played for.
Theo crashes against me, followed by the rest of our teammates piling on us in celebration. I laugh with them, proud to be playing with each of them.
After showering and getting through postgame interviews and a debrief with the coaches, I meet up with Holly and Layla in the suite where family and friends hang out. The team’s having a private after party for opening night nearby.
Layla high fives me. “He’s back, baby.”
“I am.” And it feels fucking good.
“That was an incredible game,” Holly gushes.
The thrill that fires through me hearing her say that is almost strong enough to knock me down. Taking her hand, I lead the girls to my car to drive us over to the party. Our fingers lace together and they chat animatedly on the way to the parking lot.
My parents text their congratulations in the family group chat. Elijah’s team is still playing their game when I check for the final score.
The drive to the party isn’t long. A few of the other guys are already there.
“This place is nice,” Layla says.
Humming in agreement, my hand rests at Holly’s back. “The team’s owners take good care of us.”
A live band plays before a dance floor and the walls are lined with intimately lit green velvet booths.
We order drinks and my teammates flag us down to say hello to Holly. I’ve brought most of them around to the bakery and she comes to my night skates in the evenings after closing up shop.
