Page 88 of The Secret Play

He grinned. “We got you, Coach.” Then he said something in Russian to his compatriots, who nodded once, firmly.

“All right, you guys, listen up. Petrov and Ivanov, I want you to hit a V-formation as soon as you're on the ice. Cut in toward the goalie. Your only focus is reaching the goal until Socks gets you the puck. Socks, this is a lot riding on you. Screw around out there?—”

“Wait, what?”

Each of them looked at me like I had a screw loose.

But I continued, “Act like you have no business being out there on the ice. You’re an offensive defenseman—it’s not hard for them to underestimate you. Look like you’ve never seen a play before, and you’re just there to pester them. Get them to drop their guard, swoop in around their left winger—they’ve been protecting him the whole game—and I’d bet the Cup that they’re about to send the puck his way. Get me that puck. Bring it to your boys, either one, don’t care who. Surprise me.”

“But that puts me in Nico’s zone. He’ll be pissed.”

I shook my head. “Nico knows I put you out there for a reason. I trust him. He trusts me. Go.”

They hauled ass onto the ice, each to their respective posts. Socks played the fool,accidentallycutting into Nico’s path, being a menace to everyone—the Razors and the Fire alike—at that end of the ice.

It would have been great. They wouldn’t have seen it coming. It was something new which would make Matthew happy. Everything was going according to my plan.

If only they hadn’t put in the Bulldozer.

The Bulldozer, AKA Max Martin, had quickly built himself a reputation for fighting. He’d worked his way up from the minors with bruised knuckles and missing a tooth. He had been responsible for two of their opponents ending up in hospitals in the past season alone. He took hits like they were nothing but doled them out like it was his personal mission. The man was huge. Commentators joked that they didn’t know how his skates didn’t bend under his massive form.

Socks had speed and agility on his side, but the Razors’ coach, Derek Pendleton, had paid too much attention and sent the Bulldozer after him. He knew Socks would not be able to take a beating, and he did it anyway. In his own way, Derek was worse than the Bulldozer.

Socks veered left, the Bulldozer went right. Socks spun around Nico to dodge, but the Bulldozer caught up to him with shocking speed, sending him straight into the boards. Nico slapped the puck to Ivanov, who shot it straight past their goalie, bringing us one step closer.

But I felt the crunch of the hit on Socks from across the arena. Sokolov tried to get up and couldn’t. My stomach lurched as I bolted for the ice to check on him, but the medics got there first. His nose was bloodied, but he gave me a thumbs-up. “Bet I bled on his jersey. Messed it all up. That’ll teach him.”

I chuckled. “You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch, Socks.”

They rolled him onto a stretcher. “Tell that to my arm.”

“I’ll tell it to Pendleton’s ass when I hand it to him.”

They lifted him to cart him out. “Don’t bother. But win this thing for me and for that cute kid of yours.”

“I promise.”

As he held his less injured thumb up to the arena, the crowd cheered while he was taken away. They loved to see a fallen man defiant against the odds, especially when it was one of their own. But their cheers wouldn’t make Ivanov and Petrov any happier about what had happened to their boy. They were too Russian for that, their emotions easy to read on their faces.

We were all pissed off.

That was how the last play of the season began, with anger and to honor our fallen comrade. Our players had given it everything, and I saw the exhaustion setting in. The long season, the pressure of the Cup—it was all catching up to them. And now, there was no more Sokolov to cheer up the two other naturally grumpy Russians.

I leaned forward, gripping the boards as I shouted instructions. “Stay tight! Watch the left wing! Cover the slot!” The guys were listening, their movements sharp and focused, but the Razors still matched us blow for blow. I was grateful the Bulldozer had been penalized and now rotted in the box. We didn’t need more of him out there.

Two minutes after that bullshit he had pulled, they scored.

The arena went quiet for a split second before the Razors’ fans erupted in cheers. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm as the scoreboard updated. 2-3.

There was still time.

I called for another line change, and the players skated to the bench with sweat dripping from their faces. “Listen up!” I barked, my voice cutting through the noise. “They’re overcommitting on every rush. We can exploit that. Nico, I want you to hold back a beat before you break for the puck. Make them think you’re out of position. Maxwell, you’re going to hang closer to the net. When Nico takes the shot, you clean up the rebound.”

The guys nodded, their eyes locked on me.

“You’ve got this,” I said firmly, meeting each of their gazes. “We’ve fought too hard to let it slip away now. Let’s finish this. For Socks.”

The next shift was pure chaos. The Razors pushed hard, their forwards swarming the zone like sharks. But we held strong, blocking shots and clearing the puck with precision.

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