Page 84 of Broken As Puck

It was just like the old days. Her in the stands, wearing my name. Me on the ice, determined to make her proud. Except, unlike back then, I’d never let her down.

I skated a few more circuits to warm up, keeping an eye on her. Things had been fucking amazing between us since we’d come clean to the rest of the team and management about our relationship.

Stella hadn’t been impressed that Chelsey had failed to disclose our previous relationship and Coach wasn’t happy that I’d lied to him that night he caught us at Rinkside, but we’d managed to work everything out. Her contract had been extended for a year, and we’d been treading carefully with the coaching and management staff, but within the team, everyone was supportive.

Assistant Coach Willets called the defensemen over to run drills with the first, second, and third line forwards while the fourth line forwards started warming up Davenport and Schmidt. We practiced two-on-one drills and then three-on-two drills.

The pucks flew back and forth, and as I looped around, leaving McKinley and Elliott to have their turn, I scanned the excited fans and the determined faces of my teammates, and the moment crystallized in my mind.

Once upon a time, I’d been a little boy from a family living in poverty. Now, I was playing in the NHL, about to compete for a slot in the Stanley Cup finals, and the love of my life was waiting in the stands with Mom and Dad.

I was literally living my dream.

Even if we lost tonight, no one could take that away from me.

The coaches called the team over, and we gathered for our last briefing before the game began. I was in the starting lineup and I took my place opposite Gauthier and held my breath as the puck dropped.

New York was quick off the mark, their forwards snatching the puck and racing toward us. Gauthier and I had to work hard just to hold the line. When Coach swapped us out, it was all I could do to remember to breathe as we rested until we went back on.

No one scored in the first period. In the second, their center performed some fancy footwork to get around Gauthier and draw me over. As I went to intercede, he flicked it backward to a defenseman, who sent it to the wing, who took advantage of the gap where I had been to score on Davenport.

“Fuck,” I cursed.

Gauthier slapped me on the shoulder. “Not your fault, man. They had to get past me, you, and Davenport.”

I knew that, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

We managed to hold them off for the rest of the game, but without us scoring, they still won in the end. We were a little deflated as New York hugged and hollered, but I embraced Gauthier and then Young and Kelly and tried not to feel too down about it. After all, two years ago, we’d been a mess of a team that never would have dreamed of making it even this far.

I tried to hug Davenport, but he pushed me away and settled for bumping his fist against mine. Even McKinley got in on the love fest, although I did notice him trying to push Young away when the other player insisted on slinging an arm around his shoulders.

We cooled down, stretched, and made our way off the ice and into the changing rooms. There was a strange kind of energy in the crowded space. The air practically vibrated with the built-up anticipation that had gotten us this far, but no one was standing as tall as before.

“We’re proud of you,” Assistant Coach Willets said as we sat to remove our skates and gear. “You played well today and you can hold your heads up high. Don’t be put off by this loss. We’ll just come back next season and do even better.”

“Marlon is right.” Coach Dunn raised his voice to be heard better over the muffled noises of the fans outside and New York in the other changing rooms. “We’ve come so far as a team this year.”

I undid my skates and slid them off, then stripped my socks and pants into a stinky heap on the floor. My upper body gear came next. I was glad to get it all off, peeling the damp fabric from my skin and wrinkling my nose at the smell.

“We’ve grown together,” he continued, “learned to work in harmony.”

I wrapped a towel around my waist, eager for a shower but also needing to hear whatever it was Coach had to say. There would be more of a debrief once we returned to Chicago, but that didn’t change the significance of this post-game pep talk.

“I’ve been proud to coach you this season, and I think every single one of you can walk away from tonight feeling like a winner. I won’t say any more on the matter. I’m sure you’ll want to get out and have some fun. I just ask that you keep it out of the media.” He looked around. “Harris and Matthews, meet me outside after your showers for the press conference.”

“Sure thing, coach,” I called.

Austin just nodded.

I showered and dressed in my suit, checking in the mirror to make sure that everything was in place before heading out. Coach Dunn had removed his jacket—perhaps having grown too warm away from the ice—and as I approached, he dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

“You did well tonight,” he said, tucking the handkerchief into his pocket. “That goal wasn’t on you, so don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“Thanks, Coach.” I was sure I’d rethink the moment plenty of times before my brain allowed me to move on, but it was nice to hear he didn’t hold it against me.

Austin sauntered up behind us, and Coach pivoted and made for the media room.

“You ready for this?” Austin asked me quietly.