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As usual, Tay Tay’s music was instant magic. Our teammates, even the most stoic ones, couldn't resist the infectious beat.
Walker led the charge, attempting a moonwalk that resembled a drunken stumble. Eddy’s moves were wild and unpredictable, like a toddler on too much sugar. He twirled, spun, and even attempted the worm—actually not that bad.
I let myself go, bringing out my "dad moves," even though the only people calling me “daddy” tonight were going to be the Seattle forwards. I really gave it my all, complete with finger guns and a sprinkler dance.
The last notes faded and I grinned, because as usual, our “Shake It Off” had done its job. The team was much more relaxed.
Coach's pre-game speech was a fucking masterpiece. He got in our faces, reminding us of the blood, sweat, and tears we'd poured into this shit. "You've trained your asses off, played your asses off, and sacrificedeverythingfor this moment!" he bellowed. "That jersey ain't just cloth and colors, fellas. It's a fuckin' symbol of our legacy, When you step on that ice, you're not just playing for yourselves. You're playing for every Cobra who's ever bled for this team, for this city!"
The whole team roared, and with one last “Cobras” cheer, it was game time.
As I stepped onto the ice, it felt familiar.
It was a surreal realization.
I’d started this season feeling like an alien who’d landed on a foreign planet. I’d dreaded every practice, convinced myself everything sucked, that I couldn’t wait to leave. I’d counted down the fucking days.
But now…I realized I was going to miss this place. Somewhere along the way, it had started to feel, well…nice.
I went to the glass to make googly eyes at Blake, pointing behind her. She shot me a quizzical look and turned around, only to see an employee holding a sign that said, “Mrs. Lancaster is my baby angel face. Do Not Touch.”
“Nice,” she groaned, her face turning a beautiful tomato color.
“You look hot in that jersey, Mrs. Lancaster,” I yelled as I skated away.
The game kicked off, and Seattle wasn’t taking any prisoners. They hit us hard and fast, like a bunch of crazed bulls charging at a matador. Walker was a fucking rockstar. He blocked shot after shot, making it look easy in the net.
“That’s my goalie!” I yelled as Walker made his twentieth save…of the period. And it wasn’t that I was sucking…I was kicking ass. Seattle was just killing our forwards with Tommy playing injured.
Seattle got called for high sticking and we found ourselves on a power play. Tommy somehow came up with a burst of speed despite his injured leg, skating like a man possessed. He maneuvered through their defense and fired the puck. It bounced off one of Seattle’s own men and ricocheted into the net. We all went nuts.
In the second period, Seattle tied us with some flashy moves and slick passes after Soto decided to drop his gloves and engage in a bare-knuckle brawl with a Seattle guy. We watched, bewildered, but I guess it was…progress. He wasn’t trying to beat up his own teammate for once.
Still fucking hated him though. And I still hoped he fell off a cliff or got hit by a car.
But progress was progress.
By the third period, victory was within our grasp. I blocked shots like a human wall, taking hits and deflecting pucks like the “James Norris Memorial Trophy” winner I was. And in the final minutes, with their goalie pulled, we knew we had it. I knocked the puck loose and sent it to Tommy, who made the easy goal.
The final buzzer sounded, and the whole team skated towards the bench to find out the Dallas score. Some of the staff had been tracking it while we played, and Dallas and Detroit were currently tied 1-1, with three minutes left. The arena was already in full celebration mode, obviously forgetting there was one important piece of the puzzle left…but we were glued to one of the assistant coach’s iPhones. Every passing second was agony, our collective gaze locked on the screen as if we couldwillthe result.
And then it came—Lincoln had a breakaway shot and slipped the goal right in between the goalie’s legs. Because golden boy was my fucking hero, he pointed to the nearest camera and blew a kiss.
I snatched that shit up as the rest of the team started celebrating.
We were playoff-bound, baby!
I turned to look for Blake and saw her running through the aisle of seats. I slipped past some of the guys and awkwardly ran up the steps, my blades smacking against the flooring.
“You did it,” she screamed, jumping into my arms. I spun her around, burying my face in her neck. Visualizing what it would have been like to have found her before last year’s Stanley Cup win.
Then it really would have been perfect.
Next year,I vowed to myself.Next year I’d make that happen.
Right then, the bigger victory–the only victory that really mattered–was that Blake was in my arms.
And it’s where she would stay.
