Page 158 of Slew Foot
“You complained when you caught us on the couch,” Mickey sputtered. “You can’t have it both ways.”
Tanner snickered and waggled his eyebrows. “Sure I can.”
Mickey rolled his eyes, someone threw something at Tanner, and everything descended into chaos.
It was so fucking good to be back.
Mickey threw himself into training and conditioning and the good news must have fired the guys up because over the next fewweeks the rest of the Harriers began playing their best hockey of the season.
If it had seemed like they’d lost their energy for a while, the news Mickey was coming back seemed to have lit a spark. They were making a hard push now and slowly, point by point, they were gaining ground.
The Eastern conference had been incredibly volatile all season and with a wild card spot still up for grabs, Boston getting in was a long shot.
But it wasn’timpossible.
Not when a couple of surging teams in their division stumbled and started to lose ground.
Not when Rafe was playing like a man possessed. Like he’d decided topersonallyensure Mickey had a chance to play again before the season was up by flattening guys against the boards and smothering any chance their opponents had of scoring.
Mickey wasn’t excited to go to Concord on a conditioning stint, but it was only for three games, and he had to admit it felt good to get his legs back under him.
Concord had already snagged a spot in the Calder Cup Playoffs, so Mickey didn’t have to worry about potentially fucking something up for the team when he flubbed a pass or otherwise wasn’t playing quite up to par because of his time off.
He appreciated the guys and the coaching staff in Concord, who treated him well and helped push him forward, but he’d still never been happier than when he was back in Boston.
When he slipped into his spot in the locker room next to Rafe and laughed at Tanner and Crawford sniping at each otherbefore warmups for his first game back, he felt like he was back where he belonged.
That night, they slaughtered Washington in a 5-0 blowout.
And then they beat New Jersey 6-2, leaving them one point away from the wild card spot.
That long shot wasn’t so far off now, was it?
Two days later, as they sat in the visitors’ locker room in the New York Rockets’ arena, everyone quieted as Coach Hoyt spoke before the first period.
“Guys,” he said quietly. “We know what’s at stake here.”
Mickey’s throat thickened. It was the final game of the season, the one that would determine if they made it to the playoffs or went home early. They all wanted this shot so bad. Were they in a position where they could make a deep run at the Stanley Cup? Of course not.
But even if they got swept in the first round, they wanted achance. There was always the hope the other team would falter, their goalie would choke, or their top scorer would go down with an injury.
There was always hope for a miracle.
And tonight, they were playing for that chance.
For the hockey gods’ favor.
“I don’t need to remind you we’re up against the Rockets,” Hoyt continued.
Tanner made a face and, across the room, someone else shuddered.
“Fuckin’ assholes,” Crawford muttered.
Mickey had to agree. They played a physical game, and their fans were loud and obnoxious.
Hoyt continued. “For the past two seasons, their biggest threat has been Leif Rasmussen.”
Tanner made a face again.
