Page 199 of Cross Check

When I was a rookie, I might have giggled my way through his speech. Tonight, I take a deep breath. I sit up straight, clasp my hands together, and close my eyes.

“Reflect on why you’re here.” Coach’s voice takes a soft turn. “Who are you playing for? What are you playing for? When you have that answer, I want you to grab your equipment and head back to the ice knowing the men behind you have your back. No egos. No glory. You’re all in this together, and no matter what happens out there, it’s been a goddamn honor to stand alongside you all this season.”

The room goes silent. No joking, no goofing off. I reflect on what Coach said and think about who I’m playing for: The little kid from Florida who never thought he’d make it on an NHL team. The teenage boy who kept dreaming. The college club hockey player who was in the right place at the right time and now has everything he’s ever wanted, and then some.

I stand, unlocking a new level of motivation. I lift my chin and march out of the locker room with my head held high, following behind Maverick and Hudson, the two role models I’ve been lucky to play with for so long.

The third period starts, and Liam is on fire. He’s everywhere in front of the net, diving and lunging and dropping into a full split to protect the goal with his lower half. He stops three shots, unblinking as he stares ahead.

With five minutes to go, the Atlanta Yellowjackets call a timeout. I take advantage of the break and hydrate, trying to will my legs to stop aching.

“Ethan,” Coach says. “Come here.”

“What’s up?” Ethan asks, climbing over the bench to where our coaching staff is huddled up.

I can’t hear their conversation over the music and cheers, but when my best friend and I take the ice again, I skate over to him.

“You good?” I ask, and he nods.

“Coach wants me to take the shot.” He fumbles with his stick, his grip going slack. “I don’t know if that’s the right call. I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“You could never let us down.”

“I guess if I do, no one would be surprised. I am the team screw up, after all. Most penalty minutes in the league? The dumb guy who can’t take anything seriously?”

“Stop that. You’re smart as hell, E. And none of us care about your penalty minutes. That means you’re passionate about the game.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Coach wouldn’t call the play for you if he didn’t believe in you. And we believe in you too.”

“You do?” Ethan looks up at me.

“Of course we do. You’re our favorite guy, and you’re going to make us proud.” I grin. “Where’s the cocky Easy E I know and love?”

“You’re right.” He taps his jersey with a nod. “I’m a badass motherfucker, and that goal is mine.”

After losing the face-off, I chase after Atlanta’s left winger. I launch my body in front of the puck at the same moment our opponent attempts a snap shot that hits me in the ribs. Hudson scoops up the rebound away from the boards, and I follow Maverick and Ethan down the ice. Maverick accepts a pass from Hudson then glances at me briefly.

“Switch,” he barks out, and I move, shifting to the right while Mav goes left.

As he does, he sets up a beautiful drop pass that allows Ethan to charge forward. When E gets to the crease, he sends the puck past the goalie’s right shoulder and sailing into the net.

“EASY E!” Maverick screams, wrapping him in a hug.

“What a fucking play!” I join their circle, throwing my arms around both of them. “Such a gorgeous shot, E.”

The building descends into chaos. After a celebration where we go down the bench for high fives, we have the momentum. There are only three minutes left on the clock, and we fight off every attempt by the Yellowjackets to score until the game whittles down to the last twenty seconds.

Atlanta wins another face-off, and they take control of the puck. Tearing down the ice, they attempt a shot, but Liam anticipates it. He blocks them from scoring until a second Yellowjackets player appears. Our opponent tries to squeak the puck in, knocking Liam onto the ice and into the net as time expires.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I roar, throwing my stick and gloves on the ice. I grab the closest Atlanta player to me and rear my fist back, decking him in the cheek. “Get your hands off my fucking goalie.”

Maverick and Ethan are doing the same, their fists flailing in an attempt to land a punch on anyone they can reach. It’s a mess of bodies and elbows, and by the time the refs finally separate us, it’s been decided Atlanta’s tying goal is a no goal due to goalie interference.

Then it really sets in.

We’re moving on to the next round, and we have another shot at competing for the Stanley Cup.

I jump on Ethan’s back. The rest of my teammates follow until I’m crushed under everyone’s weight and laughing until my stomach hurts.

“I’M THE HERO DC DESERVES!” Ethan yells.