Page 78 of Power Play

We celebrated another goal right before the first period was over. At the fourteenth minute, taking a pass from Dean Crawford at the edge of the left circle, Drake sent the puck flying with an accurate wrist shot right behind Nashville’s goalie’s back. Seeing “2–0” on the jumbotron as we were heading to the locker room felt unrealistically motivating. We had a chance to win this game.

The second period has not started so well for us. Nashville returned to the ice desperate for a comeback. But our defense continued to be top-notch, feeling the game and our opponents on some hypersensitive level, letting me show my ability to goaltend. I can’t stop myself from smiling when I have yet another chance to block a Nashville advance to my net.

But in the eighth minute of the second period, Nashville finally scores. Johannesen’s shot goes wide of the net, my eyes following the trajectory of its movement. I turn around at the right post when Klein slips the rebound past me and into the crease. By the time I realize what’s happening, Johannesen is already jamming the puck into the net. Two to one.

“Fuck,” I scoff.

The arena goes wild, cheering for their team, while I shoot a murderous glare Johannesen’s way. He grates on my nerves every time I play against him, ever since my Chicago days. Something about that dude isn’t right.

Or maybe it’s because he’s a great player, and he always finds a chance to send a fucking puck behind my back.

When the game resumes in the third period, I become even more attentive to what’s happening on the ice, feeling more at ease. But my nerves are still on high alert. Obviously, if the guys could score a third time, it’d give us a buffer, but I intend to keep our net intact this time.

Spurred on by the fans, Nashville’s players put up an awesome fight. They are relentless in their desire to score, but it also causes them to make mistakes. And mistakes lead to power plays, which give us more opportunities to dominate.

Colton and Drake rush toward Nashville’s net, passing the puck and outplaying the defense. Colt hits the puck with force, and for a second, I hold my breath, thinking he’s going to score. But Nashville’s goalie saves his net, blocking the shot. Unfortunately for him, the puck lands right in front of Dean,who doesn’t mess around, simply slips it in the bottom right corner, making the score three to one.

“Yeah, baby!” I do a silly happy dance. Euphoria is kicking in, making my smile grow so fucking wide my cheeks hurt. Even before the game ends, I know we’re going to be celebrating tonight.

And we are.

The final score is three to one, and I’m on cloud nine.

My first away game as a starter.

And my first starting win for the California Thunders.

Hopefully, things will start looking up…and not just at the games.

By the timeI’m finally back in my hotel room, I’m spent. After a hot shower, I start to feel more relaxed. My eyes are sleepy as I drag myself to bed and climb under the blankets. I’m ready to turn off the light when I decide to check my phone.

A message from my parents, congratulating me on our win and telling me how excited they were to finally see me on the ice.

Me:

Thank you for always cheering for me. Love you two

There are a few texts from Ethan and some from my old teammates in Chicago. I reply to all of them, but my eyes constantly return to the one I want to read the most. The one I’m dreading the most also.

It’s from Layla. And I have no idea what to expect. Our texts last week weren’t particularly good. They weren’t bad either.They kinda just were. Which actually pains me more; I pretend that I’m fine with her hiding behind her built-up walls again.

I’m eager to give her as much time as she needs. But damn if I’m not frustrated, trying to figure out how to make her actually give me a chance.

I put my phone on the nightstand without reading her text. We have an early morning flight tomorrow as we’re flying to Florida for a game on Thursday, so I convince myself that I need to sleep.

Ten minutes go by. Then twenty. I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling in the darkness of my room, watching the shadows of passing cars appear and disappear on the walls.

With a grumble, I reach for my phone again, unlock it, open her message, and stare. Out of all the things I expected to see, this is definitely not it. It’s a picture of a black Doberman lying on the floor beside Maya. I run my fingers through my hair, my eyes glued to my screen. A smile that has no reason to be this fucking big grows on my lips.

Maya sits on the floor; her hand is on Cooper’s back. A huge TV screen is hanging on the wall with today’s game on it. The most important thing in this picture is not the fact that they are watching the game, no. It’s the jersey on Maya that makes my heart go berserk. The two pigtails on top of her head give me a perfect view of her back, with my name and number 37.

Layla:

your biggest fan

Me:

I miss you two

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