Page 95 of Playmaker

I was ready. So were my linemates.

Sims and Caldwell were fresh, too, and I glanced from player to player. Nothing but fierce determination.

We could do this.

They weren’t going to make it easy, though. It was a battle to get possession after the faceoff. One of Calgary’s defenders had the puck, but Sims checked her hard, knocking her off the puck and stealing it away.

All the action quickly moved into our offensive zone, where it was cycle after cycle, battle after battle, until finally—fucking finally—we were set up. Caldwell passed me the puck. Our defenders situated themselves in front of the net to block the goalie’s sightlines.

I had the puck. Shoot? Pass?

In the space of nanoseconds, I analyzed the situation.

I had the shot, but the goalie was poised and ready. Even with a screen of three players—one of hers and two of mine—between us, she could still catch glimpses of me. Still anticipate what I was going to do.

Laws, however, was off to the side. Wide open. With a much better shooting lane than I had.

I wound back for a one-timer, and the goalie and screening players all moved around to try to either block me or the goalie.

Just before my blade hit the puck, though, I stopped, then snapped it toward Laws.

No one was expecting it. No one but her.

And before anyone could course correct, Laws fired it on net.

I didn’t even hear the goal horn over the crowd. We almost toppled Laws in hugs, and when we skated back to the bench for fist bumps, everyone was on their feet and practically jumping up and down.

Nineteen seconds left on the clock. We had the lead.

We could… We might fuckingwin this thing.

We set up again. This time, we weren’t going to make a drive for the goal—just take possession, and hold on to the puck. Cycle it. Skate around with it.

Unfortunately, Calgary won the faceoff, and the puck holder skated for all she was worth toward our defensive zone.

We were on her heels, but she was fast. Too fast.

Panic surged through me as she neared the goal.

Anya was ready. Low. Glove and stick both ready.

The player shot.

Anya batted it away with her stick. Rebounds were never ideal, but—

The buzzer went off.

The game was over.

The playoffs were over.

We’d…

We’d won.

This didn’t feel real. Even after I’d almost suffocated in the pile of hugs after my teammates cleared the bench… even after they’d wheeled out the Cup… even after I’d hoisted it above my head and skated around the ice to the deafening roar of fans and teammates…

It just didn’t feel real.

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