Page 173 of Beauty
We’re chasing eternal fame
’Cause we know we’re the best players
And we love this game
Hall’s young and War’s reckless
Harry will take us far
Brooks will leave you breathless, mm-mm
Snow might get a nasty scar
Three periods till we’re legends
We’re chasing eternal fame
’Cause we know we’re the best players
And we love this game!”
When it’s over, the noise in the room is deafening.
On screen, Sienna is beaming. I pick my phone up and mouth anI love you. Then I tap my heart for Ollie. “See you after the game.”
Reality doesn’t set in until the last ten minutes.
Win or lose—and it’s looking a lot like this will go in our favor—these are my last ten minutes on the ice as a player in the NHL.
One of the rookies chirps, “I don’t want to say it, but?—”
Aiden hits him in the chest, knocking him back a step. “Don’t say it.”
“But Brooks is?—”
I glare at him. “Shut the fuck up.”
Huffing, he bites down on his mouth guard, a bad habit half the league suffers from.
War looks at me, his expression saying exactly what the kid was thinking.
Is it possible that Brooks will really pull off a shutout in game seven of the Stanley Cup?
It sure fucking looks like it.
Shit. That’s the stuff of legends. It’d be an incredible way to go out, too, if Brooks is serious.
I shake my head. Just like I told him, this is not the time to think about that. Right now, my focus needs to be locked on Hall and Snow, who are zig-zagging down the ice, setting up Keegan for a goal. We’re up 1-0, so it’s still an incredibly close game. Hall passes it to Snow, who slaps it toward the net. But it bounces off the goalpost.
That’s our cue. Heart racing, I launch myself over the boards and hustle over to replace Hall.
War gets a hold of the puck with a nasty swipe at one of Florida’s guys and passes it to me. I’ve been on the ice for less than ten seconds when I’m set up to snipe the shot. With Aiden on the ice, the defense’s primary goal is to stop him. It makes sense; the kid’s stick work is sick. He truly is a legend already.
His reputation works in our favor. It means Florida’s not ready to defend against me all the way over here. I’m set up so far to the left that most players wouldn’t even consider attempting what I’m about to do.
But War and I have played this exchange for years, and muscle memory has me pulling back my arm and slashing the puck across the ice, between Aiden’s legs—with the help of a very well-timed jump—and past the goalie glove. When it hits the back of the net, the raucous cheers and chants that go up both on and off the ice are deafening.
I throw my hands up, allowing myself to celebrate what is likely my last goal. Then I brace myself to be the middle component of a War-Aiden sandwich.
