Page 211 of The Blame Game

He tapped Colton’s helmet with his gloves, then bumped the front of their helmets together. “Get your head in the game and we can win this.”

“I’ve got this,” Colton said, nodding.

“Good.” Dom stepped back, watching him get in line with the other guys who had been shooting them curious looks but not interfering. He spotted Gilly standing nearby, eyebrows raised in question.

“What was that about?” Gilly asked as Dom lined up to go out on the ice again.

“Just a little pep talk.” Dom grinned. “Colton’s gonna bring this one home for us.”

One of LA’s players ripped a shot toward Toronto’s net.

Makarov batted it away and the home crowd roared as Nico recovered it, skating it toward LA’s end of the ice.

“Come on, come on,” Shea whispered, holding his breath as Nico passed it to Colton. He swerved around two of LAs defensemen, so fast they barely had time to respond. He fired a shot at the goal, aiming for the spot under the goalie’s glove and Shea held his breath …

The puck pinged off the post, going wide, and Shea swore, seeing the frustration echoed in Yates’ posture as he slapped his stick against the boards.

He’d been playing better since the second intermission but his shots still weren’t connecting.

With Jensen out with a knee injury and Fowler playing but not up to his usual skills because of an ankle sprain, the team didn’t have their usual level of offense.

If Colton couldn’t do it, who else could?

Shea would love to believe that Dom would pull out a miraculous win but he was struggling too. Bruised and banged up and, quite frankly, exhausted.

“I forgot how fucking stressful this is now that I have skin in the game,” Shea muttered a few minutes later as the players and linesman set up for the next faceoff.

He glanced over at August. “You’ve gotta be feeling it, right?”

“Oh absolutely,” August said. “Although nothing will ever be as bad as watching Nico have a seizure, so … even playoff hockey feels pretty relaxing compared to that.”

Behind him, Charlie patted his shoulder. “I get it, Shea.”

“Thank you!” Shea said. Fuck. This was torture.

Shea’s blunt nails bit half-moons into his palms as the seconds for the period ticked down. He held his breath every time a Fisher Cats player got hit or they took a shot.

He watched, frowning, as Colton banged the bench door shut in frustration after another missed attempt. Dom reached out to him, gripping the front of his jersey and shouting something.

Colton froze. He seemed confused, shaking his head and gesturing toward the net but Dom insisted, shaking him. Colton nodded and they both sat, watching the next few shifts.

When it was Dom’s turn, he set up a nice chance for one of his linemates, but that didn’t go in either.

Then Colton was out again with less than a minute left on the clock and Shea held his breath, hands clasped together so hard his knuckles ached while he watched him tear up the ice with a puck.

“Do it, do it, do it.” Shea muttered.

At the last second, Colton swerved, shooting above the goaltender’s blocker and Shea’s mouth dropped open as the goalie dove in the other direction and the puck went sailing in.

A clean, perfect goal.

The light went on, the arena erupting with noise from the horn, boos from LA’s fans and the deafening sound of cheers from Toronto’s, the guys on the bench shouting and banging their sticks against the boards as Colton sailed by, beaming.

The score was tied.

On his feet, throat hoarse from screaming, Shea couldn’t stop smiling.

Play resumed and, fully expecting the game to go into overtime, Shea turned to say something to August when Charlie shouted, smacking his shoulder.

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