Page 129 of The Risk

Summer drops her face in her manicured hands. “Omigod, this is awful.” She finally glances up, seeking out her boyfriend. “His head looks like it’s about to explode.”

Sure enough, Fitz is stewing and simmering in the penalty box. Red-faced and clenching his jaw so tight, the muscles there are actually quivering.

Harvard takes advantage of the penalty Weston the asshole provoked. And just because I played Scrabble with the guy and he helped me out with Eric doesn’t make him any less of the enemy right now. Right now I loathe him. Maybe a couple days from now we can play Scrabble again, but right now I want him erased from the face of the planet.

Unfortunately, Briar is shorthanded, and Weston is the one who ends up scoring the power-play goal. Then Fitz is back and we’re able to breathe easy again.

Weston tries the same thing on Hollis during his next shift, butHollis doesn’t fall for it, bless his puppy-dog heart. Instead, the refs catch Weston’s dirty hit and he takes a two-minute minor, and we’re all on our feet screaming ourselves hoarse when Briar scores.

3–2 now.

The second period is over. “You can do it,” I whisper to the boys as they disappear in the chute toward the locker rooms. Hopefully my dad gives them aMiracle-worthy speech and we can come back, tie it up early in the third, and then score again and win the damn game.

“We still have a chance, right?” Summer’s eyes glimmer with hope.

“Of course we do. We got this,” I say firmly.

We’re on our feet again when the third period starts. It’s scoreless for almost six minutes, until, in the middle of a shoving battle in Harvard’s zone, Jesse Wilkes gets a shot off that careens right between Johansson’s legs. It’s a total fluke, but I’ll take it. The Briar fans go insane as the scoreboard switches to 3–3.

I can’t believe everyone is still maintaining the same level of speed that kicked off the game. They must be exhausted after two grueling periods. But both teams are still playing like the entire season is on the line. Because it is.

I’m mesmerized as I watch Jake do what he does best. He’s impossibly fast and I can’t help imagining him in Edmonton next year. He’s going to have a hell of a season if he plays even half as well as he’s playing tonight.

“He’s so good,” Summer says grudgingly, as Jake literally dekes out three of our boys to charge the net.

He takes a shot. Luckily he misses, and I’m ashamed to say I experience a spark of disappointment when Corsen thwarts Jake’s attempt.

Oh God. Where do my loyalties lie? I want Briar to win. I truly do. And Ihatewhat that Harvard player did to Hunter and Nate.

But I also want Jake to succeed. He’s magnificent.

We’re still tied, and the clock is winding down. The possibility of overtime worries me. I don’t know if we have enough juice left to hold them off. Especially Corsen. He’s good in the net, but he’s not the best.

Johansson, on the other hand, I’d definitely rank in the top three of college goalies. He stops every shot like a pro. He didn’t enter the NHL draft when he became eligible, but I hope he tries to sign with someone after college. He’s too good not to.

“Come on, guys!” Summer screams. “Let’s do this!” Her shouted encouragement is drowned out by the shouts of everyone around us.

My ears are going to be ringing hardcore after this game, but it’s worth it. There’s nothing better than live hockey. The excitement in the air is contagious. Addictive. I want to be able to do this for a living, not as a player, but a participant. I want to cheer for these athletes, talk to them while they’re still hopped up on whatever it is that makes them come alive on the ice. Adrenaline, talent, pride. I want to be part of that, in whatever capacity I can.

Three minutes left, and the score remains 3–3.

Jake’s line is back. Brooks is up to his usual tricks, except no one’s falling for them anymore. I think it’s pissing him off, judging by the hard set of his shoulders. Good. He deserves it. It won’t be dirty tricks that win Harvard this game. It’ll have to be skill. Unfortunately, they’re drowning in skilled players.

There’s exactly two minutes and forty-six seconds left when Jake gets a breakaway. My heart is torn, sinking when he gets the puck, and yet soaring when he nears our net. He winds up his arm to take a shot, and it’s another work of art. A gorgeous bullet. When the announcers shout, “GOALLLLLL!” my heart is somehow caught in both a tailspin and a steep climb. I’m surprised I don’t vomit from the nauseating sensation.

Harvard is in the lead now, and we’ve only got two and a half minutes to try to tie it up again. The Briar fans in the arena are screaming. The clock keeps ticking.

Two minutes left.

A minute and a half.

Briar scrambles. Fitz gets a shot on net, and a collective groan rocks half the stands when Johansson stops it. The goalie holds on, and the whistle blows.

I cup my mouth with both hands. “Come on, boys!” I shout as they line up for the faceoff. They have one minute and fifteen seconds to make something happen.

But Coach Pedersen is no fool. He puts his best guys on the ice for the last minute, treating it like a penalty kill. It’s the A-Team: Will Bray and Dmitry Petrov on defense; Connelly, Weston, and Chilton filling the forward slots. And they’re so fucking solid. The puck remains in their possession the entire time. Harvard is on the attack and Corsen is like a ninja, fending off shot after shot after shot. And although it helps us, this isnotwhat we need to be doing. We shouldn’t be stopping bullets, we should be unleashing our own.

Ten seconds to go. Disappointment forms in my belly. I peer toward the Briar bench, seeking out my dad. His face is completely expressionless, but his jaw holds a lot of tension. He knows what’s about to happen.

---