Page 75 of Goaltender Interference

Connor was on the bench again when they got another great attempt but Jesse threw himself on the puck, smothering any chance of a rebound.

Pennington got the third goal for Boston with seven minutes left in the second period and Connor rose to his feet, cheering for his teammate and tapping gloves when he skated past.

A few minutes later, there was another goal for Boston, this time by Anker Henriksen, and Connor breathed a little easier as they left the bench with the score at 4-1 by the end of the second.

New York continued to push hard in the third period but Jesse was feeling good as the first few minutes ticked down. He’d made some great saves and he was feeling himself, humming and dancing a little to the thumping music during a commercial break.

The crowd cheered and, when he realized it was for him, he waved and raised his blocker and stick, dancing a little harder, showing off for the fans.

Jesse caught a glimpse of Connor shaking his head on the bench, so Jesse blew a kiss toward him, knowing everyone would think it was for the crowd behind him.

Thankfully, Hoyt looked more amused than upset at his antics, which was way better of a reaction than Jesse would have gotten from Gilly.

God, Michael Gilbert had been so fucking uptight. Jesse didn’t miss that one bit.

As the period continued, New York had a few more good plays, but Jesse stopped the puck each time.

With about nine minutes left, New York and Boston players clustered near Jesse’s net, jostling for position when Leif Rasmussen snapped a puck toward the goal. Jesse lunged, but he was a fraction of a second too late and the puck skipped over his pad and went in, bringing the score to 4-2.

Jesse swore, frustrated he hadn’t been able to spot it though the screen of players in front of him.

“Stop fucking screening me,” he yelled at Tanner, who shot him an apologetic look.

“Sorry. Rasmussen shoved me into the crease as he took his shot,” Tanner protested, glaring at New York’s forward.

“Fuck you, Clayton,” Rasmussen snarled back, skating away but not before he leveled a glare at Tanner.

“Dude, what the fuck is that about?” Jesse asked when he was gone. “What beef do you have with our associate coach’s son?”

Tanner rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Don’t ask. We played together in Juniors.”

Jesse gave his teammate a skeptical glance because Tanner didn’t usually fight guys he’d played with previously. But Tanner was a bit of a pest on the ice so Jesse could see how maybe there was bad blood now.

Boston and New York were longstanding rivals and tempers tended to flare hot during rivalry games.

Jesse wiggled to center himself, then hunkered down in the net, taking a few deep breaths to calm his mind and regain his focus. He’d let two goals in, but he’d stopped way more than that. He could do this.

All he had to do was maintain their two-goal lead.

Boston got a few good looks at the other end of the ice without a goal and Jesse deflected a few more pucks in his end, so the score remained 4-2 while the minutes of the period ticked down.

There were about ninety seconds left in the game when Rasmussen tore up the ice again, the puck on his stick, skates flashing as he dug in.

Jesse’s gaze zeroed in on him, watching for those tiny, almost imperceptible clues that would tell him if Rasmussen was going to shoot or pass the puck. Gaze locked on Jesse, Rasmussen passed, blindly shooting the biscuit toward Vincente Pearson, one of New York’s defensemen. Jesse’s gaze snapped over to Pearson, throwing himself sideways when the guy pulled his stick back, slapping the puck hard toward Jesse.

Jesse snapped up the disc in his catcher, grinning at the glare Pearson shot him.

“Aww, did I mess up your chance, big guy?” Jesse cooed with a wink. He held his catcher out so the waiting linesman could grab the puck, laughing at the muttered curses flung over Pearson’s shoulder as he skated away.

Boston was in control for the remainder of the minute and a half and when the game ended, the Harriers had won their opening night game 4-2.

Elated, Jesse danced a little in his crease while he waited for his congratulations.

His heart beat a little faster when Connor skated up, beaming. He was flushed pink, sweat trickling down his temples as he pressed a smacking kiss to Jesse’s mask, tugging on the cage a little.

“Good job, Webby,” Connor said, beaming. “You did so fucking good tonight.”

Jesse shot him a grin back. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

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