Page 96 of Overtime
I know part of my family’s right behind my goal, and I can hear our adopted pet, Brooklyn, screaming his throat hoarse with various encouragements. Olivia is probably so annoyed at him she’s not even focusing on the game. She can never seem to get him to shut up. Next to them are Luz and her fiancé, Max Cassiano. His team has a game nearby tomorrow, so he apparently flew in early for tiramisu. Dude is as obsessed with it as someone I know who is wild about strawberries.
Speaking of, she sits with Ryan and some of the Strikes right by the tunnel to the locker room.
I’m happy to report my concentration has stayed in mint condition all game. It could be because my green-eyed monster isn’t triggered tonight, but I’d prefer to think it’s because I’ve learned a few lessons since that game. And also because I got to make out with her while she was in her underwear and wet.
There’s a party planned for after we win this game. I wonder if I’ll manage to do some overtime reverse tutoring there. Maybe further her book research—both on the hockey front and the romance front. We’ll see.
The puck drops, and I forget all of that.
The Bulldogs explode out of the faceoff with a breakaway. A meteor could drop in the parking lot and it wouldn’t flap me, least of all some dipshit who escaped our even more dipshit defense. I don’t know if he’s tired or if I’m on a new plane of existence, but he’s moving too slow. I can read every move of the puck as he handles it. I can see the target painted in his eyes for my fourth hole. I can see the exact angle of his wrist’s bend as he goes for a slapshot.
My mitt catches it like a magnet, and the arena blows up with noise.
Surprise flashes across the Bulldog’s face, and that’s when I know we’ve already won. Whether in overtime or shootouts, it doesn’t matter. This save shook the foundation of their team to the damn core.
I stay vigilant, though. The clock ticks fast and even. Though the Bulldogs keep barking, our D bites them back. Finally, our first line hits the ice, and I check the time. We have one minute and eight seconds left. Should be plenty.
The puck changes sides several times. A Bulldog ices it. It goes back into play. Webber checks a Bulldog against the boards. Bracken picks up the puck and makes a pass at Amadi, who shoots with his left hand. Even though he’s a righty.
And he scores.
The buzzer goes off to a cacophony of celebration all around us. I pump my fist as the guys celebrate all the way across the ice in a way that almost gets them beat up. The final buzzer goes off, and I can’t help it. I laugh. My teammates are assholes, but they’re the best assholes.
My roommate is the first one to slam into me, saying, “We’re going to regionals, baby!”
“Heck yeah!” Another one smashes against me from the other side, and I grunt.
And then one more. “I can’t believe it!”
“What are you talking about? I knew we had this in the bag!” someone else shouts.
“Regionals! Regionals! Regionals!” That one’s Amadi, and one by one, the whole team joins the chanting. Soon enough, the arena is intoxicated by it and chanting too.
My heart’s hammering harder than in the middle of the game. I finally take in the audience. This is probably the first time in my Division I career that I’ve seen this place packed to the rafters, like finally this snobby-ass school has gotten with the program and understands that hockey’s the best.
I’ll make sure this team modifies St. Cloud’s DNA until students and staff alike bleed Thunder Bolts blue.
As we do a victory lap around the perimeter, I catch my little sister giving me a thumbs-up. That’s much more shocking than Brooklyn and Luz competing over who can jump and wave the most. Cassiano shakes his head, wearing a thick scarf and baseball cap meant to conceal his identity. I don’t think it’s working, because some chicks in the row below keep glancing back at him.
I take off my mask and raise my stick at them, and even Liv claps.
Following the stream of my teammates, I file off the ice into the corridor. People extend their hands for us to high-five them, but I’m not about that life. Instead, I spot the Strikes and the honorary Strike.
“Great job! Now you’re not losers anymore,” Ryan says with a guffaw.
Strawberry’s cheeks are pink, and she beams that wide smile directly at me. A congratulations that is only for me.
As it should be.
I clamp my jaw tight and nod at her, lest my teammates see me smiling like a clown. I keep going, and at the locker room, Coach is giving a quick debrief before we hit the showers.
It hits me like a bolt. I have no right to think like this. I’m not her boyfriend. A smile from her shouldn’t feel even more monumental than this win. Especially because I won’t see it again once the semester ends.
“Who’s ready to get wasted?” one of the guys asks in the middle of the running showers.
Another one counters with “More importantly, who’s ready to get laid?”
A chorus of horny animals roars at that. I rub my face extra hard with soap because I’m dying to get into Strawberry’s pants, but I shouldn’t. And I don’t know how to stop myself from wanting her. She deserves better than a covert and temporary friends-with-benefits situation, which is all I can offer without getting in trouble in more ways than one.
