Joel
Everything fucking hurt.
Muscles, bones, head.
But three spots stood out above the rest.
My right ankle where I’d taken the first puck.
My right shin where I’d gotten the second.
And my chest where the last puck had hit me.
Making it hard for me to breathe, making it hard for me to think.
But that wasn’t why I didn’t answer the trainer when he asked me what hurt.
Everything hurt, but that didn’t matter.
Because Fox was skating toward the net like the hounds of hell were on his heels—and maybe they were, considering how fiercely the other team was chasing him down.
I got it.
There was less than thirty seconds left in the third period.
A goal now pretty much sealed the game—not a guarantee, because this was hockey, and a team was never officially out of a close matchup until the final buzzer rang.
But it was hockey. Playoff hockey.
And if Fox scored then we won.
The game.
The series.
The Cup would be ours.
The season would be over.
If Fox buried this puck.
No fucking pressure, huh?
I ignored the trainer, focused on my friend, ignoring the pain, ignoring my protesting lungs.
I watched Fox cut hard to the far side, watched him wind up—
“Holy shit,” I whispered, unable to believe what I was seeing.
My friend moving faster than I’d ever seen him move, his hands almost a blur, they moved so rapidly.
The goalie was out of position, scrambling to keep up with that quick movement.
Fox wasn’t.
He shot.
The puck flew through the air.
Toward the net.
I froze.
Fuck, it felt like everyone around me froze.
And watched that cylindrical disc of rubber fly toward the net.
Closer. Closer.
I sucked in a breath.
Watched…
As it sailed into the net.
There was a moment of complete and utter silence.
Then the red light flashed on.
The whistle blew.
And the crowd exploded.
“Holy shit,” Ryan said from next to me.
“Fuck, yeah!” I cheered, jumping to my feet…for all of a second. Because the pain raged through me, my leg collapsed, and I nearly ate shit.
The trainer grabbed my arm, caught me before I crushed my face against the sill. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back to the locker room and get that ankle checked out.”
I glanced at the scoreboard, saw our goal tick onto our side, saw that there were six-point-eight seconds left in the period.
Left in the series.
Left before we could take this whole damned thing.
Yeah, no.
That wasn’t happening.
My foot could be hanging by a single tendon and I wouldn’t be leaving this fucking game.
Fox skated to the bench, huge fucking smile on his face, bumping fists along the way, climbing in through the door, chest heaving as he stood next to me, leaning against the boards, staring out at the ice. Everyone was on their feet—my teammates, the coaching staff, the fans in the stands—and the excitement was palpable.
The anticipation was there.
Six-point-eight seconds until all we’d worked for was in our grasp.
Six-point-eight seconds we would remember for the rest of our lives.
The other team called their timeout and we congregated around the boards, listening to coaches as they imparted whatever small pieces of advice they could come up with at this point in the game, at this far along in the series. Mostly words of encouragement. A couple of things to focus on.
That was it.
Keeping it simple.
Letting us catch our breath, allowing us to gather strength for one final push.
And by us, I meant my teammates.
I could barely focus on anything aside from the red hazing the edges of my vision.
I wasn’t going to make it back out there.
But I was going to make it to the end of this game, going to see this through.
Even if I was ready to sit the fuck down.
“Ankle?” Fox asked, eyeing me up and down, but thankfully not clamping a huge hand onto my shoulder like he was apt to in these kinds of situations.
“Yeah,” I muttered, wincing as I took more weight off my foot, leaning more heavily against the boards. “And shin.” A beat. “And chest.”
He winced. “Shit, man.”
“Nice goal,” I said, trying to take my mind off the pain radiating up my leg.
“Nice pass,” he said, mouth curving.
“Nice—”
“Fox,” Coach called. “Ryan.” A glance at me before he called out another forward’s name, rightly reading that I could barely stand up, and would be a liability out there on the ice.
My teammates lined up at center ice.
The ref blew his whistle.
I stayed upright, clenched at the boards, watched Fox line up to take the face-off.
One heartbeat.
Another.
The puck dropped.
Fox won it back to our defenseman.
Six seconds left.
Who chipped it up the boards to Ryan.
Five seconds left.
He carried it over the blue line into the offensive zone, took a hit, and was rubbed out on the boards, the puck drifting to the corner.
Four seconds left.
Fox hauled ass in, scooped up the puck, brought it deeper into the zone.
Three seconds left.
Fox was checked from behind, crashed into the glass, but Ryan was right there with him, corralling the puck on his stick, keeping it on the boards, bracing for more contact.
Two seconds left.
More players joined the fray.
One second left.
Our guys were already half over the boards, waiting for time to tick down, waiting to get out there and celebrate—
The buzzer went, but it was barely audible over the roar of the crowd.
Because…
The game was over.
We’d done it.
The Cup was ours. We were the best team for this season. We’d battled through a long-ass season and injuries and too much fucking travel and…
We’d done it.
To his credit, our trainer didn’t try to get me away from the bench once the buzzer went off, didn’t try to coax me back to the medical room for treatment for my ankle.
Probably that was because he was walking toward me, arm around my Rosie’s shoulder, leaning down and saying something in her ears.
I loved my woman to the fucking moon and back.
But I wasn’t going to let her coax me into missing this moment.
She nodded, said something, then moved toward me, determination tightening her features. Her voice was gentle when she rose on tiptoe and spoke over the noise of the crowd. “How are you doing, honey?”
I cupped her cheek. “Feeling pretty fucking great, Rosie baby.”
She smiled. “Minus the ankle?”
My lips curved in turn. “And the shin.” A wink. “And the chest.”
A wince, but she didn’t order me to see the doctor, just moved closer and carefully wound her arm around my waist, as though she was going to hold me up.
And I had no doubt that she would.
That she could.
That even if she physically couldn’t, she would still find a way to get it done.
Case in point?
The crutches that made their way to me just as the guys were rolling out a carpet, as the Cup was being carried out, as mid-ice handshakes were beginning to be exchanged.
“Fuck, I love you,” I rasped, leaning down to kiss her.
“Go, honey,” she murmured when she pulled back, touching my jaw before tugging my helmet from my head and moving back. She helped me maneuver onto that carpet, onto the ice then called, “I’ll be here if you need to borrow a good leg or two.”
The pain was getting worse.
But I needed to be out there.
So…I was.
Because of my woman.
Because of Fox and Ryan, who made sure I got my chance to heft the Cup without falling on my ass.
Because of my own special brand of stubbornness.
I got this moment.
And…then I got to go to the hospital.