Page 161 of The Nanny Goal

“It’s in my fucking glove, right?” I scream the question. “I have it. Get the fuck off me.”

I try to get my blocker up, using it to push with all my strength, and then the whistle finally comes.

But the pushing and shoving doesn’t stop, even after I’m clear of the pile-up. Smash does his thing, flinging off his gloves and gesturingcome hereat one of the Miami bruisers, a big Russian guy named Petrov. Rusty grabs another one of their players, someone who is chewing on his mouthguard.

The last thing I see before I shove off the post and slide out of the melee is Armstrong shoving that guy in the chest, then snatching the mouthguard away.

I think that’s the moment I know we’re going to win. The little squeak of indignation I hear before I float out of the mess, taking the brawl as a nice stretch break, over in the corner by myself.

Fans scream and pound on the glass.

I roll my shoulders and look up at the scoreboard.

The penalty is over. We killed it off, but with all the bodies being pushed toward the box by the refs, maybe a new one is about to begin.

I drag a deep breath into my lungs, then glide back to my net.

Let’s fucking go. I’m ready.

* * *

In the end, once the penalties are read out by the ref, the forwards line up even strength for the drop, but four on four.

And then Calhoun scores.

For thirty seconds, Miami has a one-man advantage, but that means nothing to Hiro Watanabe, who tricks them into turning over the puck and scores short-handed for us.

After that, I don’t see a single shot for most of the period. I have the best seat in the house for the most magnificent hockey I have ever seen played in front of me.

Haler scores. Connor scores.

The game is out of reach, but they still pull their goalie and now it’s six on five, and then we called on a tripping that maybe wouldn’t be called, except we’re up six to two. And so now it’s six attackers against four defense, and we’re on the penalty kill, but there’s only so many block shots that my teammates can take before the shots start coming at me. There’s only a minute and a half left in the game, and I’m blocking shots and every time I get my glove on it, I have to put it down and stop it.

Which means there’s face-off after face-off, ten feet away from me.

Miami is winning a lot of those draws, and each draw feels like a guaranteed shot to stop.

Glove.

Blocker.

Butterfly down. Knob up.

Until suddenly, the place slows down and the arena starts cheering.

High-land-ers, High-land-ers, High-land-ers

The horn goes.

We won.

We fucking won.

We’re moving on to…

“Round fucking two,” I scream, taking off for centre ice, throwing my hands in the air. “Round fucking two.”

Dodaj is the first person to slam into me. Then Hale and Hooner.

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