We go through the usual pre-game motions, and after the national anthem plays, Chippy skates down the line, fist bumping the team with his big furry mitts.
When I finally square up with the Hurricanes’ captain, my adrenaline is pumping.
“How’s it feel to be the worst team in the league?” he chirps. “Huh, St. James?”
I snort, keeping my eyes locked on the ref’s puck hand. “Does your coach know you’re out here?”
The puck drops, and I’m moving before it even hits the ice. The Hurricanes’ center is fast, but I’m faster.
Instead of snapping the puck back to Forey, I push it forward, sliding it right between my opponent’s legs to win the face-off.
I’m around him in an instant. I pass the puck to D-Vo and take off down the ice, skating hard. He flips it back to me as Icross the blue line into the attack zone. My world narrows to the puck, the net, and the goalie.
Our eyes lock, and I shoot.
He lunges, but the biscuit sails right past his glove and into the basket.
Goal!
Pride fills my chest as the arena erupts, and I drop into a kneeling fist pump. My teammates swarm me as I come up, gloves knocking mine and patting me on the helmet.
“Captain Clutch does it again!” Forey says, giving me a light shove.
The excitement is palpable, and though most of their cheers are drowned out by the crowd, I grin, adrenaline singing through my veins. This is it. This is the start we need.
It’s the first step to building confidence within the team.
Unfortunately, the high doesn’t last.
The Canes come back hard, and our defense is slow to react.
It doesn’t help that McGinnis is showing off, trying to dangle through the defenders instead of making smart plays. The Canes are taking cheap shots at him, and Kristiansen—who’s supposed to be keeping the pressure off the kid—isn’t doing a damn thing to discourage it.
“Ginny, stop fucking around!” I shout as he skates past the bench. The kid is on the second line, but he’s playing like it’s his first day, which, technically, it is. “Play smart!”
He ignores me, and I grit my teeth.
Our defense is sloppy, leaving Bouchard exposed. He’s scrambling, saving shots that never should have been allowed. His frustration shows in the hard set of his shoulders and the way he holds his stick, and I don’t blame him. He has every right to be pissed.
“Wake the fuck up!” Bouchard roars at the defenders. “I’m under siege!”
When I’m back on the ice, I skate harder, trying to pick up the slack, but it’s not enough. The Canes are beating us in the corners, and every shot they take is wearing Bouchard down.
At the end of the first period, they score on the breakaway.
They score again early in the second period, and suddenly, we’re down 2-1.
The pressure is on, and if we don’t pull it together, we’re going to lose the damn game.
I try to focus on the basics—winning face-offs, clean passes, accurate shots—but it’s impossible to ignore the nagging voice in my head that says we’re already fucked.
Focus,St. James.The game isn’t over yet.
We’ve come back from worse. We can still win this game. But every time I look at the bench, every time I see Coach’s face, I’m reminded of everything I have to lose.
We tie it up late in the second period with a goal by Ginny, but the Canes score again in the third, and no matter how hard we rally, we can’t close the gap.
The buzzer sounds and the final score glows on the jumbotron: 2-3.