Page 122 of Goaltender Interference

God, they did love their family rivalry angle.

“Well, it does add to it,” Connor admitted. “Kelly’s a great defenseman and he’s been a big piece of Evanston’s rebuild.”

“What do you think it’ll take for Boston to get a win tonight?”

More goals for us than them? Connor thought, but tempted as he was to answer that way, hecouldn’t. Not without getting himself in trouble with Tyson Short—their PR director. Not to mention Hoyt and Racine.

“I think we need to control the pace from the beginning, get the puck to the net more, and keep out of the penalty box,” he said aloud.

After a few more bullshit questions and some equally stupid answers on his part, Jocelyn finally let him go.

Connor spent the remainder of the time hydrating, checking on his teammates, and preparing for the next period.

“Okay,” he said, rising to his feet with a minute left until they needed to get out on the ice again. “I like a lot of what I’ve seen so far. We’re getting good chances and we need to keep it up. Play clean, stay out of the box, and let’s score a few more goals.”

The guys cheered.

“Oh, and before I forget, O’Neill’s Pub tonight. We’ve got a family thing.” He waved vaguely. “And there will probably be some Otters players there tonight. So let’s make them cry into their beer. Especially my brother.”

The team laughed.

“If we win, drinks are on that guy!” Jesse called out, pointing at Connor with two finger guns.

Another cheer went up and Connor scowled but nodded, because after that, he’d look like an asshole if he said no.

Across the room, Jesse’s eyes sparkled as he raked his damp hair off his forehead. The little shit, he knew exactly what he’d done.

The team rose to their feet, trooping out into the hall. Connor tapped shin pads and chest protectors as guys filed past him. He liked that Jesse was first out on the ice and he was last. It made him feel like they had this team taken care of from top to bottom.

Graham was a great guy, a great alternate, but he was quiet and fairly reserved. He was a good locker room guy because he was someone players could go to if they needed to talk. He did a good job arguing politely with refs without getting himself in trouble like Connor had done a few times in his career, a little too hot-headed when he got fired up.

But Graham wasn’t an energy guy. Crawford could be, but he wasn’t always consistent with it and he wasn’t really a role model.

Jesse filled that energy role well.

The third period was a grind. Both teams tore up and down the ice but their goaltenders were dialed in and the score remained 5-4, Evanston tenaciously holding on to their lead, Boston lagging behind in shots.

With three and a half minutes left in the third, Connor drove hard toward the Otters’ net, the puck on his stick, breathing hard when he got a shot off. Hajek lunged, diving to protect his goal, and the puck ricocheted off his pads, flying uselessly away where it was picked up by an Evanston player, none of Boston’s skaters anywhere near to catch the rebound.

A shift later, Anker fired the puck across the slot and over to Tanner, who tipped it in over Hajek’s pads, tucking it into the net. The goal horn sounded and the Boston players on the ice collided in a celly, happy to have to tied up the game at 5-5.

“Good play, good play,” Connor called out, holding out his glove when Tanner skated past, beaming.

But with just over a minute left in the game, Evanston poured the pressure on, peppering Jesse’s goal with shots.

Connor went out for his shift, desperate to keep the game from going into overtime, but the play remained in their defensive zone and when several players tangled in front of the net, Gabriel Theriault fired the puck at Jesse. Despite his best efforts to bat it out of the way, it slipped into the back of the net, just like the previous one.

Crawford’s frustration boiled over and he shoved at Theriault, causing him to topple back, and bump into Kelly, who went down on top of Jesse, who tried to shove him off. It quickly devolved into a mess of shoving and arguing.

“Stop fucking touching my goalie,” Connor roared, diving into the fray, striking out at anyone wearing the teal uniform with a snarling River Otter on front.

Connor got dragged out by a linesman, helmet askew and glove missing, and got sent to the box for his troubles.

He dabbed at his split lip with a towel as he stewed beside Crawford in the penalty box, pointedly ignoring heavily accented Quebecois chirps from Gabriel Theriault on the other side of the glass, gesturing emphatically, his hair a damp, tangled mess of dark strands clinging to his cheeks.

Unfortunately, the uneven penalties left the players on the ice at four on three and Evanston played keep-away with the puck for the remainder of the penalty.

When the game horn sounded, Evanston had won 6-5.

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