Page 45 of Playoff

FOURTEEN

Blake

The series is tiedat two so game five is a big deal. It’s also the last game at home, in L.A. We’ll have a mental advantage if we go into game six—in Alaska—up three games to two. And it gives us a little breathing room. If we win tonight, even though the goal is to win it in six, we still can have an off night and come back in game seven.

I hate thinking about losing, especially since I’m playing my ass off, but it feels like there’s a lot of pressure on us tonight. The game is sold out, everyone and their brother is attending—from friends and family to celebrities and fans from all over the world. Personally, it all boils down to pressure from my dad. I love having Mom and Phoebe here, but Dad makes me crazy.

We had breakfast at the hotel this morning before Bodi and I left for practice and Dad alternated between talking about how much of a loser I am and how this is my shot, how I’d better not blow it. Mom managed to redirect the conversation once or twice, but my father is pretty single-minded when it comes to making me feel like shit.

He’s not impressed with the minors, so he rarely comes to games in Phoenix, which is a relief.

This is a whole different ballgame, though.

“How’s everyone feeling tonight?” Coach Vanek comes into the room where we’re having a team meal and looks around. “Any injuries, personal drama, or fuckery going on?”

“Not yet,” Ivan quips. “But give us an hour.”

We all laugh.

“I know you’re feeling the pressure,” Coach says, hands on his hips. “And there’s nothing I can tell you that will make that go away. But try to push everything out of your mind. The sports pundits, pressure from your family, concerns about what happens if we lose—we can’t control any of that. All I want you to do is think about playing the game we’ve been playing all season. That’s what this boils down to.”

Everyone is quiet, solemn, listening intently.

No one is eating anymore.

We’re all just focused on him, the sound of his voice as much as his words.

“Life beyond hockey goes on whether we win or lose, so for now until the end of the game, don’t worry about it. It’s out of your control. Let me hear you say it.” He looks at Canyon. “Say it, Marks.”

“It’s out of my control,” he repeats.

He turns to Gabe. “DeLugo.”

“It’s out of my fucking control,” he says.

He goes around the room and makes every last one of us say it.

The funny thing is, by the time we’re done, I almost believe it.

“I really like playing for him,” Bodi says under his breath. “I’m going to hate going back to Phoenix.”

“We’re not going back to Phoenix,” I reply calmly.

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Most-Points-So-Far-in-the-Playoffs.”

“We all bring something to the table. None of us wins individually.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m NHL material. Maybe the minors is where I’m supposed to be.”

I glance at him in surprise, because I’ve never heard him talk this way before. Obviously, the pressure is getting to him differently than it does to me. I worry about my dad; he deals with imposter syndrome. I get it.

But we don’t have time for that.

Not today.

“Dude, knock it off,” I say in the sternest voice I can muster up without being loud. “You’re here for a reason. There are twenty other guys on the Rebels they could have called up, and they chose you.”

“I’m a big fish in a little pond in Phoenix,” he says, “but here, I’m a fucking minnow in the middle of the ocean.”

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