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SAM
My skates slice through the ice as I get a jump on the defender. I can feel him hot on my tail though. I cut to my right before shifting left and aim for the goalie’s piehole. But his legs collapse at the last minute, and he stops the puck from reaching the back of the net.
I win the face-off that follows, and Ollie ends up with the puck. He shoots a perfect wrist shot into the corner of the goal. The hometown crowd erupts, along with the sirens, as we tie the score.
We’re in game seven of the conference finals, playing at home in Chicago. Our season has been great, but none of that matters now. We have the cup in sight and only one more hurdle to jump before reaching the finals. The game went back and forth for three periods as we end regulation time with the score tied.
The game goes into overtime. And about five minutes in, I watch in horror from the bench as the opposing team crashes into Coop, dislodging the goal in the process. He goes down hard at an awkward angle and doesn’t move for a few seconds. He’s helped to his feet by the trainers, but he’s holding his left arm. Our backup goalie takes his place as Coop disappears down the hallway toward the locker room.
A brawl erupts in the middle of the ice in retaliation for injuring our starting goalie right before we score the winning goal. After tempers settle, we reluctantly shake hands in the middle of the ice. It’s been a fierce series, and the rivalry is fresh, neither side ready to forgive and forget yet.
The locker room is somber despite the win when word comes through that Coop broke his left forearm. A clean both-bone fracture. He’ll be out for the finals. The team will remain evasive with the press, but the sling on our goalie’s arm is a dead giveaway. His absence from the ice will be another. Coop’s skills guarding the net are a big reason why we’re in the position we’re in right now—four wins away from a cup. It’s everything a hockey player dreams of his entire life. Tears are streaming down the big man’s face as he sits in the corner, and it isn’t from pain. He wants to play. We all do.
We do our best to console him, Ollie staying by his side the longest. But there’s little consolation to provide a player when their season is cut shorter than it should be.
Ollie and I venture out of the locker room after showering and changing clothes. I sigh in relief when I see Emerson standing there with Suki and my parents. Ollie’s folks, Mads, Oakley, and Chase are also here. St. Louis didn’t make the playoffs this year. I’m reminded of how lucky I am to still be playing when I look at Chase’s face. I know he’d give anything to be on the ice rather than watching from the stands. And I remember how it felt to be at the bottom of the league not so long ago in California.
I pull Emerson into my arms, kissing her before making the rounds to greet everyone else. We celebrate the win with a meal together at a local restaurant. Ollie and I rent out a private back room so we aren’t disturbed.
My girl and I walk the short distance home arm in arm alone. I open the door to our building and usher her in first, my eyes lingering on her legs when she walks a few steps in front of me.
Every time I see her these days or when my hands land on her skin, I’m reminded of how lucky I am. I never saw this coming. The first day she moved into my place, I had no idea that I’d never want her to leave or that it would turn into the beginning of forever. She quickly made my apartment a home. And she’s made me a better man in the process.
Shortly after the gala, we formally dissolved our contract and came clean about our relationship. I was bracing for the downfall that would follow, but the Hawks organization never said a word. I think they were so happy with my new improved image that they didn’t care about crossed lines. And let’s face it, I never was one to follow the rules. If anything, it’s their fault for putting the most beautiful woman in the world in the bedroom down the hall from me.
Em’s art took off shortly after that post I made on social media. Interest soared once the world was exposed to her talent. She’s now showing her work in a gallery in New York and one here in Chicago. And she’s been painting the portraits of all the guys on the team in action on the ice. They’ll go up next year, lining the arena for all the hockey fans to see every time they come to one of our games. She’s so busy right now, she can’t keep up with the demand. Many nights, she paints until dawn, sneaking into bed just before the first rays of light brighten the sky. But I’ve never seen her smile wider. And lucky for me, she wears that painting shirt on the regular. I’m definitely not complaining.
The cherry on top was that the more time Emerson and I spent together, the better I played on the ice. Everyone took notice. The suits, my teammates, the media … I hit a sweet spot in my career that I had never experienced before at the same time as I hit the jackpot in my personal life.
???
The next day, I walk into the locker room to change into my practice gear. The guys are buzzing around, a combination of nerves for the series to come and excitement for winning the conference. We have another game tomorrow night, the first of the cup finals. I can feel the anticipation in the room.
I’m lacing my skates when the room goes silent.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ollie murmurs from beside me.
I look up to see a familiar face standing in the doorway, glancing around the space.
I rise and meet the newcomer in the middle of the room, a slow smirk crossing my face. He drops the duffel bag he’s holding on the floor as he faces me. I glance up at him.
“What the hell are you doing here, McMann?”
Charlie’s grin matches mine, his Boston accent ringing through loud and clear with his next words. “I’m here to help you guys win a cup.”
I grab him in a bear hug that he reciprocates as the rest of the guys step forward for introductions. Charlie McMann. The goalie Ollie and I played with at Sinclair is here, in Chicago, ready to don a Hawks jersey. Hope surges through my veins for the first time since we lost Coop.
“I’ll tell Emerson to get her paintbrushes out again,” I announce to him. “Looks like she’ll have a new teammate to paint.”
McMann looks confused for a moment, so I explain about the murals she’s doing for the team. I also let him know that she’s my woman, staking my claim before he gets any ideas.
The huge goalie smirks. “You and Emerson, huh? I remember that mural she painted on the side of the building in college.” His brow furrows. “What I don’t remember is her hanging around the team much.”
“She was too good for us back then,” I announce. “Way out of our league.”
“She’s still too good for you now, Anderson,” Cruz pipes up from the corner of the room.
I flip him off before conceding. “That might be true, but somehow, I convinced her to stick around.”
