Page 160 of The Nanny Goal

I look to the bench for a gut check. Makie’s there. Coach could put him in.

But neither of them are looking my way.

I’m not getting saved here. This is my game to win for my team, I have to be better than that. And somewhere in New York, Emery is watching me, and I sure as fuck have to be better for her. I have to be better for Inessa, too. When she’s older, she’s going to be told over and over and over again how this game goes. Her dad’s first playoff series. I want her to be proud of what she hears.

But most of all, my team in front of me—and my fucking self—deserves a win tonight.

We didn’t go up three games in a series just for me to develop a case of the fucking yips.

I square my neck and hunker down, and I save every fucking puck that comes my way. Twenty-six of them by the end of the second period, an insane volley of shots.

And then, with three seconds to go before everyone gets a chance to catch their breath, Ty gets his stick tangled up with one of his former teammates, and it slices up and under the guy’s visor.

A double minor penalty.

We’ll start the third period on the penalty kill.

* * *

In the dressing room, we re-hydrate. We get refreshed. I put on a new undershirt and take a piss.

But it’s not like any other intermission break. We are one period away from winning a play-off series.

And my teammates? They aren’t fucking scared of being on the PK. They’rehyped.Marsh draws up plays on the white board. Coach comes in, sees what we’re doing, and just lets us cook.

Everyone is dialled in.

And then it’s time to get dressed again, and get back out there.

* * *

They win the draw and get set up. Their centre falls back, looking for some space, and then powers up, suddenly gaining too much speed. And from where I can see the play, I know he’s going to break through and get a shot.

I’m patient. I wait for it.

Don’t read too much, just keep your eyes on the puck.

I catch it, a satisfying thump in my glove, and flick it away. Keep the momentum, keep the kill going.

They get another zone entry, there’s another fast press, and again we hold them off. This time they don’t even get a clean shot.

They fall back and do a line change. I don’t have to look up at the display board to know we’re nearing the two minute mark.

Their second penalty kill team isn’t on for that long, maybe forty-five seconds, and then the first team comes back. We must be rounding the third minute.

And I start to think they’re not going to get set up to do a third zone entry. I can feel the penalty kill ticking down, but then suddenly there’s one last blast of energy, and there’s a player in front of me.

Fuck.

I shove him aside, keeping my line of vision clear, and I plant my skate against the post. Stacked. Ready.

The puck snaps off a stick and zooms through the air. High. It’s high. Shoulder maybe. Higher. Fuck.

I get my glove up.

Snap.

I’ve got it, I know I’ve got it, but there’s no whistle, and then bodies are piling on top of me.

---