“Don’t worry, Cap. I’ve got this.”
The Treehouse reaches a fever pitch as I approach the box, and I freeze when I realize what they’re shouting.
St. James. St. James. St. James.
They’re cheering for me.
It’s happened before, in San Jose, but never here in Atlanta. The only person—and I use that term loosely—they’ve ever cheered for is Chippy.
Pride warms my chest, and I wave to the crowd, acknowledging the support.
This is exactly what Emerson was talking about. Rabid fans who come for the hockey and stay for the vibes.
At least something is going as planned.
Nelson and I both get five for fighting, and while I’d much rather be on the ice, I need to catch my damn breath.
I grab a towel from the stack at the end of the bench and wipe my face as I settle in to watch the face-off.
The first period is pure chaos. We can’t seem to settle down, and there are a lot of turnovers on both sides. Hardy gets into a shoving match over a questionable hit, but thankfully, it doesn’t progress to a full-blown tilt.
The Flyers are aggressive on the forecheck, applying more pressure than we’ve seen from them in the past, but Boosh comes through, holding the score 0-0.
The second period is a little better, and Chippy spends most of it harassing the visiting team. He’s a total menace, and the fans are eating it up.
Their energy is infectious, and when the Flyers draw a two-minute penalty for slashing, Smitty scores on the power play.
1-0, Gliders.
The Flyers answer the call, tying it up early in the third. We’re throwing everything we’ve got at them, trying to prevent the game from going into OT, but they’re not going down without a fight.
Coach signals a shift change, and I take the ice along with the rest of the first line.
I win the face-off and pass to Bash, but he gets tangled up behind the net. He passes to McGinnis, who takes the shot.
It bounces off the goalie’s skate and gets picked up by the Flyers D.
Fuck.
Ginny drives the defender to the outside, and Bash is right there to cut him off. The giant bruiser smashes the defender against the glass, and Ginny steals the puck.
He resets, passing it to me up top.
The Flyers’ defense has been strong all night, but we have to find a way to score.
Breathing hard, I fake left, drawing the defenseman toward me. He takes the bait, and I snap a wrist shot toward the net. The goalie’s glove shoots up, but the puck deflects off his blocker and bounces into the corner.
McGinnis is there in a heartbeat, battling for possession. The Flyers defender is making him work for it, but he eventually digs the puck out and sends it back to Kristiansen at the point.
The winger winds up for a slap shot, and I crash the net, positioning myself for a rebound.
The shot comes hard and fast, and the goalie makes the save, but he loses the puck. His head snaps left, then right, but I’m already moving, my blade connecting with the rubber before the defenseman can clear it.
The goalie drops, a last-ditch effort to block the shot, but the puck slides between his legs, clearing the red line.
Goal!
The horn blares, and the arena explodes as a fresh wave of adrenaline sluices through my veins.