Page 102 of Chips & Checks
It starts with a hell yes.
Epilogue
Bowen
On his way past me during warmups, Lenyx whispers, “Operation: Ring My Bell is a go.”
I can’t open my mouth. If I do, I might barf. My nerves are off the charts, and the night is just getting started.
The first wrench in my plans comes less than a minute later, when Dante comes out to call for a team huddle. To Coach Metcalfe’s dismay, one of his guys brings out a podium from the tunnel. He stands behind the mic. “Boys, circle up. Cash, that doesnotinclude you. Per the contract you signed to sing the anthem tonight, you must remain twenty feet away from me at all times.”
Cash Hale—country music celebrity, father of Knight, and father-in-law to Viktor—lifts one indifferent shoulder. “Works for me.”
Once we’re all gathered around, Dante clasps his hands in front of him. “Okay, Vegas Venom, here’s the deal. This is the first conference championship game that this team has seen in a decade. When you’re playing tonight, I want you to remember that all the former Venom players are watching over you. Literally.” He points up to the friends and family box, which is indeed packed with former team members. “This is a big night for us. More importantly, this is a big night for me. Don’t fuck it up.”
He waits for a beat, perhaps expecting a round of applause. The rest of us are waiting for whatever he’s going to say next, but it seems like that’s the end of his speech, because he heads for the glass without another word.
The guy comes behind him to take the podium back to wherever it came from.
“Wow,” Viktor deadpans. “Good speech.”
Coach shakes his head at Dante’s retreating back. “Well, you heard the man. Let’s do this. We have some magic to make.”
I still have a few things to line up and only a couple of minutes to do it. First, I skate by the glass and give Briggs a hopeful thumbs-up. He responds with a huge grin and two raised thumbs.
Next, I skate by Coach Abbott. “Coach Abbott, did you handle the thing?”
Noah responds with a nod andonethumb, but he’s always been a little more low-key. I assume we’re good.
Alright. It’s go-time.
Cash and his wife, Kingsley, sing the national anthem, but I don’t hear a word. I feel like I just ate an entire sheet cake: kind of happy, kind of sick, andwaytoo jittery.
“Too bad Knova didn’t show up for this,” Camden whispers.
Viktor, standing on his left, elbows him in the ribs. Knight, to his right, does the same. Camden lets out a little mewl of pain, which earns him stink-eye from Coach.
Warm-ups finish in a blur, and I’m anchored on the bench for the anthem, palms hot inside my gloves. Operation: Ring?My?Bell hums between my ears like a clapper begging to strike bronze. And it can’t happen unless we punch our ticket to the Cup. One win. Sixty minutes of perfect hockey.
Opening draw. I square up against their captain, knees flexed, weight forward, locked in. I need this. When the puck drops, I snap it clean back to Viktor and take off up-ice, ready for the give-and-go. The barn’s deafening, but every sound filters into a single pulse beneath my helmet.
My first shift ends with a wrister that smacks the glass—close, but not good enough.
We keep rolling lines, peppering their goalie. Cam feathers me a perfect saucer pass in the high slot, and I snap it bar-down. The clang of iron punches my gut. The crowd oohs. I skate away, chewing curses and trying not to lose my focus.
Every shift, I chase pucks like they owe me rent—knocking guys down, backchecking like a lunatic, taking zero shortcuts. I need this win—for the boys, for Violet, for myself.
We’re up 2–1 when the puck reverses behind their net. I curl low, expecting the breakout pass from our new d-man—miracle of miracles—but I don’t see the defenseman coming.
Boom.
Shoulder to jaw.
Lights out for half a heartbeat.
My vision strobes white as I sprawl across the ice, ears ringing like I stuck my head inside a jet engine. There’s a whistle somewhere. Gloves drop. I can’t register much of anything except how weirdly soft the ice feels beneath my cheek.
Then I hear Violet’s voice—sharp, panicked, full of terror. I can’t make out the words, just the rhythm, slicing through the fog. Trainers swarm around me. I blink until the two of everything blur into one.
