Page 128 of Top Scorer
CHAPTER 55
TRISTAN
The locker room buzzes with nervous energy and routine noise. Tape rips, sticks clack, helmets click, men trash-talk. I walk in, and a few people cheer.
“There’s Daddy!”
That’s when I see it over my locker.
We’re cheering for you, Daddy! Love, Olivia and Orlando.
The letters are crooked, the baby prints smeared, but it’s a goddamn work of art. My babies’ first masterpiece.
Coach Zach steps into the middle, claps once, and the room shifts to full attention. His voice is raw from all the screaming of the last three weeks—at refs, at us, at the game tape. Tonight’s message is something we’ve all heard at some point in our careers. Some version of:This is it! Leave it all on the ice!
Except this time, it’s literal. This is no vapid expression or overwrought exaggeration to inspire a team. We aretrulyat the cusp of being at the top of the league, or about to suffer the worst loss of our careers. The higher the climb, the more shattering the fall.
“Boys, this is it—what you’ve worked for your entire lives. Game Seven. You play for that boy you were, dreaming of this moment. You play for your family and friends and fans, rootingthrough the good and the bad. Most of all, you play for Each. Other. We know what to do. We know what it takes to win. When history looks back, let it see everything you left on the ice. Tonight, make yourselves unforgettable.”
Sticks hammer the floor. Hollering fills my ears. My chest pounds. My legs twitch to move.
We’re ready.
The game starts at a breakneck pace and never slows. Seattle attacks hard, crashing bodies against the boards and keeping elbows up in case they catch a chin without the refs noticing.
But Jeremy’s on net, and he’s superhuman tonight. He stretches across the crease like a rubber band, swallowing pucks that should be goals. Each save whips the crowd into a frenzy. Their goalie answers with his own miracle stops.
By the end of two periods, it’s still zero-zero.
Midway through the third, the plays turn dirtier. Both teams are desperate for that next goal.
A regular season has eighty-two games. Playoffs are a few dozen more on top of the regular season. That’s over a hundred games that will come down to One. Fucking. Goal.
Lance gets flattened by a late hit. Before the refs can blow the whistle, Logan is there. He’s our self-appointed sheriff, a veteran who knows how to score and how to fight. His gloves drop instantly, and fists start flying. The crowd loses its collective mind.
Once Logan gets his way and the refs tear them apart, both fighters end up in the penalty box. No one got the power play, so we’re about to start four-on-four hockey.
Less players mean more open ice. In other words, more room for two-hundred-pound bodies to go the speed of a car and crash each other. As a fast skater, it’s harder to catch me with this much space. My lungs are screaming as I surge through open ice.Thisis where I thrive.
Sergei gets the puck in our zone, legs churning like pistons. I match his stride, racing up to the offensive zone, cutting hard tothe crease. I plant myself in front of their goalie, who shoves his blocker into my spine.Shove away, asshole.I’m not moving.
The puck whips around the zone. Gordon somehow manages to dangle it back to Sergei. The sound of sticks clashing echoes, sharp as gunfire. The puck ricochets off a skate, zips back to Sergei at the circle. He fires.
I don’t see the puck, Ifeelit deflect my angled stick. Their goalie never reacts, not with me blocking his entire view.
Red light. Goal. The arena detonates. My ears ring from the roar, bodies pile on top of me, helmets clatter against mine.
The single most important goal of my career, and I get to celebrate with these guys. It doesn’t get better than this.
One-nothing.
Unfortunately, the damn clock won’t hurry. Each second is a year. Seattle pushes back hard, though fatigue has settled into their skates. Their legs look heavy, whereas I’ve got my second wind. Every stride I take, every gasp of breath, is for Ligaya, for Olivia, for Orlando.
Finally, mercifully, the horn blares. Chaos erupts. Gloves, helmets and bodies are flying. I haul myself at my teammates. We take turns hugging Jeremy who didn’t let in a single goal. He has to be the MVP.
The Mavericks are Stanley Cup champions.
We line up to shake our opponents’ hands. Although Seattle lost, they’ll stay on the ice until every one of them congratulates every one of us. It’s a tradition that makes me proud to be a hockey player.
