Page 99 of Puck You Both

Early in the third, he shows me what close is worth to him. Theo escapes into the slot and gets his shot away clean, a goal in any building in this league, and Wall takes it off his pad, loses the rebound, then drags it off the goal line with the heel of his stick, blind. Eighteen thousand people start the roar and have to eat it.

Theo jerks his head in a way that suggests a creative string of curses.

I lift my chin down the ice.

Excellent save.

I still want to beat you.

Wall returns it and settles back into his stance.

The Wolves lean on us after that. My legs get heavy, but the reads stay clean. A Becker shot dies in my glove, Groover finds my skate at the post, and then, with about seven minutes left, we finally put the puck behind Wall, and Theo goes back to work.

Kane gets there first. Theo absorbs the hit that comes with him. Trapped in the corner by both defensemen now, down on one knee again, he slips a blind backhand between his own skates to Lindqvist, arriving from the point. The one-timer beats the blocker, dies behind Wall's right pad, and crawls for the line with Kane diving in after it.

It crosses.

Two–one, and the stands go bananas. Theo surfaces from under Becker without his stick and looks for me before he looks for anyone else. Both hands, pointed down the ice. Repaired.

I hit my post once, hard.

Wall stays down at the far end, staring at the strip of ice that beat him. Then he rises and puts his stick into his post, and I feel the clang in my teeth. Close twice tonight.

Chicago vengeance comes in waves. Two more saves put me at thirty-seven, and then Wall skates for the bench and an attacker comes in with seventy seconds left.

During the timeout, our goalie coach crouches at my crease and points at his tablet. "They're building the seam for Ace."

"I know."

They've shown it twice already: Becker walks the line, Kane waits across, Ace drifts and impersonates a tank.

Chicago wins the draw. Traffic seals me into my crease. I track the puck through a gap beside Lindqvist's arm as it goes to Kane, then across the seam, and Ace is alone with open net above my pad, because I'm still low from the first look.

He releases immediately. Good shooter. Right choice.

I drive off my edge and reach across the opening, and the puck meets the heel of my glove on my way down to the ice.

Ace's arms start to rise. The building inhales. I open the glove for the official.

Black rubber, sitting there.

Mine.

Whistle. Save thirty-eight, no rebound, and the arena finds a register I've only heard a few times in my career.

Ace stares down at me. "You've got to be kidding me."

The replay runs overhead from three angles, louder each time. At the Chicago bench, Wall stands, watching the screen, then gives me one small lift of his chin.

Mine answers on its own.

The final faceoff produces one blocked shot, before the horn disappears under the crowd. We're above the line, and every Viper lands on me. Gloves on my mask, Lindqvist's hand on my helmet, bodies filling the crease. Joy reaches my face faster than I can dress it in something composed.

Theo hits my side at full speed and knocks my mask crooked. "Did I repair your evening, or what?" he yells straight into my ear.

I catch the back of his jersey. "Adequately."

He jerks back to glare at me. "You’re physically unable to be happy, aren’t you?"