Page 56 of Crossing the Top Line

I step out of the way as trainers surge forward, getting water into as many hands as they can manage in the two minutes it takes to scrape the ice before play resumes. I’m posting the news all over socials, fingers flying as fast as I can without making mistakes. Taking a moment, I scroll through the team’s mentions, pleased to see a positive response to this turn of events.

An announcement comes over the loudspeaker, explaining the rules for overtime. Three-on-three for five minutes, any goal ending things. If no one scores, then we go to a shootout. I’m curious how Logan will play things here, as this is different than regular special teams. With only three skaters on the ice, besides the goalie, there’s a lot more room to move, but that’s also more room for mistakes to cost you.

When the buzzer sounds, I’m not surprised to see Dallas and Henri on the ice first, with Evgeny slightly behind them on defense. The puck drops and the Preds win the faceoff, moving down the ice, but get forced to the outside of the zone, cutting off any good shot angles. A turnover sends the trio in purple down the ice, but they lose the puck after taking a shot. I don’t know how the players can hear anything over the cheering in the stands, but a line change is called, and I blink in surprise.

Instead of two forwards and a defenseman, Logan sends out Oli, Spencer, and Eli together. I don’t have time to think through the implications of this move before they’re off, boxing the Predators in at their end of the ice. A sloppy pass is intercepted by Oli, and I blink again, but it’s over. The goal horn blares and there’s a collective groan from the crowd as the Mystic celebrate.

Looking at the replay, my jaw falls open as I watch the lightning-fast move. Oli gets the puck, spinning in one smooth motion to redirect it to Spencer, who’s waiting at the left faceoff circle. Even before the puck is in front of him, Spencer has his stick back, and with what can only be described as superhuman accuracy, he swings at exactly the right moment, rocketing the puck into the back of the net before the goalie can even move to block it.

A beautiful play. Breathtaking precision, trust, and cooperation. A highlight reel play, if I’ve ever seen one. The ungodly amount of talent on display strikes like lightning, and my whole body shivers.

Movement at the mouth of the tunnel draws my attention, and an idea strikes. I whip out my phone and hit record on a video right as players start to make their way back to the locker room. As I hold out my fist, I catch the eye of our backup goalie, Gabriel Boucher, first. He grins at me as he bumps my fist with his blocker, setting off the trend. Each guy bumps my fist as they pass, some making faces into the camera, but most just giving me a weak smile.

About two-thirds of the way through the procession, Spencer, Oli, and Eli come through. Eli gives me a goofy grin, even reaching up to ruffle my hair clumsily with his glove before moving on. Oliver gives me a wink as he taps my fist, but Spencer steps off to the side, heading for the broadcast interview. Bringing up the rear of the line is Logan, who gives me a puzzled look before tapping his fist gingerly to mine.

“It’s a fist bump, Coach. It’s not going to bite,” I tease after I end the video and tuck my phone into my bag.

He gives me a skeptical look but doesn’t answer before moving to join Spencer. I follow behind, having to take two steps for each stride of his long legs. Logan shed the jacket he’d been wearing at the start of the game, leaving him in just his pale blue dress shirt tucked into charcoal pants, but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing surprisingly toned forearms. I shake myself before I can get too caught up in looking at the way his muscle flex when he shakes a producer’s hand, moving to stand behind the camera and taking a headset as it’s offered to me.

I can hear Mike talking with the desk reporters back in New Orleans, discussing the overtime goal in detail before they transition into Spencer’s interview.

I look up and catch his blue gaze, giving him a reassuring smile as the camera operator counts down to going live. He returns it for a heartbeat before turning to the camera, the smile shifting to the forced one I recognize from the beginning of our interview.

“Spencer Black, thank you for joining us after that incredible play,” Zachary Miller, the lead desk anchor, says brightly, and I can hear his smile in his words.

“Thanks for having me, Zach,” Spencer replies, still a little breathless.

The interview is full of softball questions, nothing too intense that would put Spencer in a compromising position, which is exactly what we want. Right now isn’t the time for the third degree, not when we have a flight to catch to Montreal in a few hours.

“Walk us through that overtime goal. Have y’all practiced that move or…?” Zach trails off.

“Yeah, no, it was a good one. I don’t know if you can ever practice for stuff like that. But Ace and Joker play a really good game, and we’re still working things out, but they’re good at getting the puck where it needs to go,” Spencer answers, scratching at his sweat-damp curls.

“We can’t wait to see how many more jackpots the Casino boys give us in the future. Spencer, thank you for your time, and the great game,” Zach says, wrapping up the interview.

Spencer waits for the signal that we’re off the air before pulling the headset off and handing it back to the producer. I can hear the broadcast go to a commercial break, so I let my own headset drop to my neck.

“How was that?” Spencer asks, moving away from the backdrop to make room for Logan.

“Perfect,” I chirp, grinning from ear to ear.

He rolls his eyes before nudging me with his shoulder. “Don’t look so smug,” he chides with a scoff.

I laugh a little, but don’t respond. It might be petty, but I think I have every right to be smug over my nickname for his line sticking with the media and the general public. Any time they score a goal, the comments under my posts are filled with emojis of dice, playing cards, slot machines, lucky sevens, and all manner of casino-related images. It’s rare that people latch on to stuff like this when it’s initiated by the team accounts, but people are running with it. It might be my best idea ever since the “feud” I organized with the social media teams in Houston, Carolina, and St. Louis about who has the best game-day food.

Spencer lingers for a moment, looking into my face, eyes darting around like he’s searching for something. I let my smile drop, losing myself in the ocean of his irises for a heartbeat. But then the moment shatters as the producer announces that the sports radio station back home is ready for Logan’s interview. I look away, putting on my headset again. For a second, I think Spencer is going to wait, but I see him shake his head out of the corner of my eye before moving off back to the locker room.

“Coach Logan McQueen, thank you for joining us after one hell of a game,” the host starts, and my attention returns to the task I’m being paid to complete.

Oneofthebestthings about playing in Nashville is there isn’t a long bus ride to get to our hotel after the game. It’s just a short walk across the street, and bam, there it is. It’s not exactly a secret that’s where visiting teams stay, so before games, there are usually a handful of fans waiting to greet the team as they make their way over. But after the game, people clear out quickly so we’re able to travel as a herd from the player entrance back across the street.

The players are exhausted, which isn’t surprising, considering we’ve been going since basically before sunrise this morning. But the staff is still going strong, most of us listening to Gene as he recounts some of the calls we missed from the broadcast tonight. But there’s one person who isn’t laughing along, and I spot the head coach in among the players, speaking emphatically to Dallas, who I’m convinced is asleep with his eyes open.

“Drinks on Mike!” Gene exclaims before we enter the hotel, his signature booming laugh covering his color commentator’s moan of half-baked annoyance.

There’s a collective agreement, and as we file into the lobby, most of the coaching staff heads into the hotel bar, the noise following them. I linger at the edge of the room, still watching Logan as he gives out praise to the boys as they head toward the elevators and their rooms. We’ve got an early flight to Montreal tomorrow, and by the looks of things, the guys are nearly falling asleep standing. Neither Eli nor Oli notice me as they shuffle into the elevator car, Spencer right behind them. But as the last of the players depart, Logan looks around, spotting me at last.

“What are you doing out here? Didn’t you hear that Mike is buying drinks?” Logan says, voice warm if a little weary.

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