Page 92 of Penalty Box
I undressed quickly, and pulled on my gear while the guys went through their usual pre-game shenanigans around me. I laughed at all the jokes, no matter how stupid, and even helped Tucker when his skate wouldn’t lock the way it should.
I was lacing up when Grayson slid onto the bench beside me. “I have an idea, and I want you to hear me out before you say anything.”
He sketched it out, talking fast: a switch between left wing and center mid-shift, using our speed to fake Denver’s forecheck. I’d take the draw, but after three seconds I’d loop wide and open upthe lane for him to drive. It was chaotic. Something we’d only ever joked about doing.
“It’s too risky.” I let him down as gently as I could. “We can’t run some beer league experiment in game seven.”
“That’s exactly why it’s perfect,” he said with a smirk. “You want them to see it coming instead?”
I stared at him. “You sure?”
“When am I not?” He stood up and ruffled my hair. “We’ve got this, Calder.”
I glanced down at my phone, thumbing a message as the guys started filing out to the rink.
Me: See you at the game?
Three dots blinked for a second before Cass’ reply came through.
Cass: Can’t. Watching a snail cross my bathroom floor. Might take all night.
I laughed out loud and tossed my phone into my locker. The sound of sticks tapping concrete and a building war cry pulled me from the locker room in a hurry, and I raced after the rest of the team.
I caught up, helmet in hand, ready for blood.
You think you’ve played big games before. Rivalries. National championship. Even that first time on NHL ice. But nothing—nothing—came close to a Game 7.
It was the second round of the playoffs, and the whole building felt like it was breathing. Or holding its breath. Shallow. Tense. Waiting for something to happen.
We hit the ice to a roar that rattled through my bones like thunder in a canyon. Surge flags whipped overhead. Pucks clacked against boards during warmup. But it wasn’t until I lifted my head toward the box that the night truly came into focus.
Cass stood beside her dad, cheering us on with the rest of the crowd. He was stone-faced, but that was just his face. There was none of that icy distance between them. A truce. Maybe more than that.
It did something to me. Settled something inside that I hadn’t realized was still shaking.
I blew her a kiss, and the crowd went wild. Cass turned beet red, and hid her face in her dad’s chest. He gave me a look that said he’ll deal with me later.
“Part of the family, huh?” Hunter tapped my stick with his as he skated up. “I’m happy she took my advice.”
“Your advice?” To say that I was stunned was an understatement. “You spoke to Cass about me?”
“Looking out for a friend, that’s all,” he said, then pulled on his face shield and beat each of his pads in turn.
“Wait, we’re friends?”
“Shut up and play, Calder.” Hunter skated off to take his position, hyping up the guys the whole way. Our starting goalie had the flu, so Hunter was between the posts tonight.
The puck dropped, and I moved.
First period was brutal. The Avalanche came out like they’d been given special permission to maim. They hit hard. Clean, but mean. One of our defensemen took a shoulder to the chin that knocked his helmet halfway to Amarillo.
Coach rotated the bench tight, keeping energy high. I stayed locked with Grayson and Shawn on the top line, sticking to the new plan: the fake switch and slot rotation.
On our second shift, it finally clicked. Shawn took the puck deep, bounced it off the back wall. Grayson drew in two defenders, and I looped wide. It played out just like he’d said, and the puck hit my stick tape like it had a homing signal. And I fired.
It hit the post.
The red light stayed dark. The crowd groaned. I slammed my stick into the glass on my way back to the bench.
