Page 68 of My Pucking Enemy
From the moment the game starts, I can tell something is wrong. The Frost almost never runs a 2-1-2, so the Panthers shouldn’t have seen it coming, but they respond perfectly to it. The Panthers win the opening face-off too, the energy mismatch I predicted goes in the opposite way from what I thought. Ratherthan the Frost coming out strong, the Panthers are muscling their way into a lead.
I’d thought Russell—the Panthers’ best D-man—was going to jockey with the first man in. Get caught up in fighting with Luca and completely forget about trying to get the puck to the weak side, which is the only good strategy against a 2-1-2. When I watched all the game film, looked into his play and his psyche, I assumed he’d slip up. But his positioning is excellent, and the forecheck isn’t working.
Our strategy is falling apart. I seem to know it before the guys on the ice do, and it sends that simmering, low sense of anxiety just under my throat into a full boil. Something is wrong. I just have no idea what, specifically, it is. And that’s not a feeling I like.
Not one bit.
The Frost are starting to fall apart. Grayson has pulled into himself. Maverick, apparently emboldened by my original plea to smack talk the other players, has riled the Panthers up, and not in a good way. They’re all playing physical, and with every passing minute, my worry over someone getting seriously injured continues to rise.
By the time we hit the start of the third period, I’m on my feet, pacing back and forth. Normally, I don’t talk to Uncle Vic until the end of the game, but I go down to the bench hoping to have a word with him.
It hits me, for the first time, that winning isn’t just about the money.
Obviously, the bonus for winning the Stanley Cup would be nice. Help me make sure my grandmother is taken care of. Take care of some of those lingering legal fees. But I want this for more than just a paycheck.
I want this for Luca, who has wanted this since he was a kid. I want this so he can make the name for himself that he wants to make. I want this as a fan of the Frost, after watching how hard Luca and the rest of them have been working.
Early mornings, late nights. Conditioning and practice and talking about hockey at parties and showers and Christmas and Easter. This is a life’s work. A family empire, just like that article said. But in a way that exists without the snark.
They’re building something here. Making something from nothing. It’s about more than Luca—it’s about the city, about the fans, about Reggie in the nursing home asking for Luca McKenzie’s autograph.
I want to be a part of that. Be a part of them winning the Stanley cup.
Prove that I can be useful in something other than lying and conning. That I can live a successful, fulfilled life without my father at the helm of it. Show my grandmother that she never has to worry about me leaving her the way my father did.
“Coach,” I say when I reach the bench, but I’m too late—it took me too long to push through the crowds and make it down to the team. Uncle Vic doesn’t hear me, but Luca—just about to jump over the boards and head back out onto the ice—does. He catches my gaze, and just like that, we’re the only two people in the arena.
In the split second that passes, Luca says without speaking,Don’t worry. I’ve got this.
And I don’t have time to send my own message before he’s barreling out onto the ice, skates cutting hard, determination set in his stance.
My mind is blank for strategy, for an adjustment to make, so I just have to trust that Luca can make this happen.
He does.
Cal and Luca turn something on, flipping a certain switch that morphs them into an unstoppable pair as they fly up and down the ice, focusing only on the puck.
It’s a demonstration of pure talent, and that talent is what pulls them through, putting the Frost ahead by one at the end of the game. The teams line up, shaking hands, and my heart is pounding in my chest.
There will be more games against the Panthers, then we’ll move on to another team. Somehow, I got everything on strategywrong this time. I have to figure this shit out before we get to the point where raw talent will no longer be enough.
I can’t let the team down.
Turning around, I start up the stairs to head back to my seat, but I come to a stop when I see a figure at the top—a strikingly familiar grin spread out over his face.
Dad.
I blink, and he’s gone. Numbly, I walk back to my seat, hands shaking, heart pounding, mouth gone dry.
It was just a trick of my mind. An imagination. A hallucination caused by the stress.
It has to be.
Because I don’t even want to think about the alternative.
Luca
On our off day between playoff games, and before flying down to Florida, we have an emergency strategizing session. Everyone is on board—Coach Vic and all the coaches, me, Wren. And she looks a mess, her hair tangled, the bags under her eyes dark. When she speaks up, it’s with an uncertainty that feels completely out of place coming from her.
