Page 117 of Crease Collision

For a while, I keep loading clips I have no professional reason to watch. I always knew Ozzy was good, but I need to reevaluate that word. There’s being good, and there’s whatever he is. I don’t have a word for it. That’s annoying because I always have words for things.

On the way out, I open the link Ozzy sent earlier. It’s a clip of me from a game last month, robbing Fox Painter blind on a two-on-one, leaving Montreal’s best player talking to himself. Ozzy had sent another message a few minutes after the first: This was on my feed. Look at you, superstar.

When I get outside, I send a reply.

KAI: You’re the other best goalie in the league. I’m going to beat you anyway.

My phone buzzes before I reach the corner.

OZZY: Adorable.

OZZY: No.

KAI:

OZZY: Dinner’s at seven. Don’t be late, hotshot.

I pocket the phone. Three days until the series starts. Best-of-seven, our barn first, the entire city already losing its mind about it.

Game on.

CHAPTER FORTY

OSKAR

It’s hard to breathe. The stuffy tunnel doesn’t help, but there is more than that. It’s Kai. Game one against the Condors is waiting a few feet away. At the end of the series, one of us will go on to play for the Laurentian Cup while the other sits at home, waiting to see who wins.

My head spins, and just as the world goes sideways, the announcer introduces the New Jersey Fury. Lewis gives me a push, and I’m running on my skates, then jumping onto the ice.

While the anthem plays, I’m supposed to have my eyes on the flag. If I turn my head the right way, I can see Kai, but not clearly enough to read him. He’d looked calm during warmups. Most people would stop there, but I know him better than that.

Fan. Before all this begins, I could use a hug from him. Before I help the Fury kick his ass.

Less than thirty minutes separate our arenas, and the hockey world has decided that must mean we’re enemies. We aren’t, of course. Last night, we ate Mexican takeout on Kai’s couch and watched a documentary about sharks. Then we went to bed, and—for the night—forgot we’re rivals. It was probably the last quiet evening we’ll have for a while because hockey is about to consume everything.

The mixed New Jersey-New York crowd is still cheering while I skate to my crease and take extra care scuffing the ice. I do it a second time before talking to the goalposts and tapping them gently. Only then do I turn and look down the rink.

Kai’s kneeling, petting his posts like he would a puppy. While I’m adjusting my helmet, he stands and looks at me. I shouldn’t be able to see his eyes from so far away, but I’ll swear I can.

“Ready for this?” they’re asking. Or maybe, “Ready for us to kick your butt?”

After we kissed this morning, as we were leaving for our morning skates, he said, “Good luck, Ozzy. Hope you have fun.”

Now, here I am, about to do what Gunnar and I dreamed about since before we started school. This is for both of us, brorsan. Help me out if you can.

The puck drops. We play with fury, as Coach told us to do, but nobody can get one past Kai. I’m making as many saves as he is, which has already earned me a few choice curses from the Condors. When I can, I look down the ice, and sometimes Kai is looking back. I’d love to know what he’s thinking.

With eight minutes left in the period, the Condors take possession of the puck. They flood into our zone and start hammering me with shots. No matter how hard our guys work to break their rhythm, it does no good.

One of their wingers sends a pass to Nico Rossi, who winds up for a one-timer. Already calculating the angle, I spring into action. The puck is a black blur, but I bat it away with my blocker.

Carson captures the rebound. He’s the fastest man on our team, a blue streak racing down the ice. After he jinks around both Condor defensemen, he cuts for the crease and takes his shot. Kai drops into a butterfly. The puck soars by his glove, and the crowd erupts as the ref signals a goal. Fury 1, Condors 0.

Part of me celebrates because we’ve taken the lead. Another part watches Kai stand and take a drink of water. When he turns back, I raise my stick, but he ignores me.

The Condors take the next faceoff. A winger breaks away and hurtles toward me with startling speed. About twenty feet out, he unleashes a snapshot. I try to slide right but miss a beat. The crowd is already on its feet when I execute a desperate T-push and throw up my glove. I’m cooked, just as Kai was.

But the puck slams into my glove, and I squeeze hard to hold on to it. I’m getting what Kendrick calls “half and halfs” from the crowd; the Fury fans are roaring their approval while the Condors fans boo. When I square up again, Kai turns away.