Page 97 of The Nanny Goal

Haler is often the last one on the ice, but when he comes over to start rounding up pucks at the net, I tell him I’ll stay out and be the last man off if he wants to go check on Rusty.

“You sure?”

“It’s my barn too, Captain.”

He grins at me. “Sure fucking is.”

Which leaves me as the final Highlander on the ice, a sentinel waiting for Calgary to clear out. Two of my former teammates are still circling, shooting pucks in their net, and the third player with them is the man who I was traded for.

They’re talking to each other, and I think they’re trying to get him off the ice, but he won’t leave.

The time runs out, and I stop circling my net and go to stand in front of it.

Waiting.

Fans start booing, and then someone jeers at him.“Get off our ice, Tilman.”

I stand taller again.

“Off our ice, off our ice, off our ice.”

He twists and slaps a puck in my direction.

I don’t move.

It goes wide, utterly harmless.

He stares at me, then turns and heads down the visitor tunnel.

I’m sure that won’t be the last time tonight he shoots a puck my way. The rest of his shots will be closer, faster, and actually count if they get through me.

But I’m not worried, because after that pathetic display, I don’t think Max Tilman returned to play hockey.

He came to pour poison on this ice—but I’m not letting it anywhere near my net.

I raise my stick in a salute to the crowd, then head back to the dressing room.

It’s fucking quiet.

Not silent, exactly—there’s tape being ripped, skates being re-laced, and someone is tapping on their shin guards with the butt end of their stick—but there’s no chatter.

There’s something to prove tonight, and it’s probably going to get rough.

I’ve heard all about the day that fractured this team. Hooner and Dodaj both need to process everything out loud—even if I’m just a silent sounding board. So while I wasn’t here for the brawl, I can clearly picture it. The shoving match on the ice during practice, and the escalation in the middle of this very dressing room that led to a fractured jaw. The details that spilled out about Tilman’s marriage falling apart, and Armstrong being in the midst of that.

Front office had no choice but to dosomething.

I was the something.

So I didn’t see the big break up of the original expansion team, but I’ve had a front row seat for the fallout.

And tonight I’ll be in net. A different kind of front row seat.

Across from me, Armstrong is rolling his shoulders. Definitely ready for a rematch. Hale has one eye on the big Scotsman. Watanabe’s bouncing his leg like a live wire. Beside me, Zondi hasn’t blinked in two minutes.

Even Marshie looks tense, and nothing ruffles him.

I wonder what was said before I came back from warm-up.

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