Shot on Goal

Chapter 26

Walking into the arena two days later knowing the team had already secured a spot in the playoffs was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I had an extra hop in my step as I headed for the locker room, my headphones on and blasting pump up music to drown out the string of reporters.

Though they were nudged off by Wellsley as he fell into step beside me, already dressed in his warmup gear. "Have you seen the lineup for tonight?" he asked, clapping me on the shoulder.

"Not yet, considering I just got here." I lifted an eyebrow, curiosity creeping in. "Why?"

He grinned. "We've been bumped to the first line."

The words took a second to register, but when they did, I came to an abrupt stop. I reached out to grip his shoulder, dumbstruck. He had to be joking. "You're shitting me."

A bark of laughter escaped him. "I'm not," he promised. "It's the last game of the regular season and we've already made the playoffs. Coach doesn't want to risk some of the usual starters getting hurt, so we're in, bro. We're in."

Yet I still didn't believe it until I caught a glimpse of the white board in the locker room. Jack, Mackay, Stafford—they'd all been scratched. The lines had been shifted around to accommodate a few of the reserve skaters who'd been called up, and scrawled next to Wellsley and Orlov, right at the top, was my name.

Brookes, #22.

The feeling that spread through my chest—a mixture of disbelief and euphoria—brought me back to when I was thirteen. Just a nervous, lanky boy who'd loved hockey, and who'd been shocked as hell to see his name on the roster for the traveling team.

And now it was on a new roster. Right at the top.

If I hadn't been surrounded by my teammates, grinning with pride as they congratulated me and the rest of the newly minted starting line, I might have allowed myself to freak out. Might have allowed my hands to tremble or my heart to race, but instead, I was a picture of confidence.

Cool and collected. Gearing up for warmups like it was any other game day.

"You ready for this?" Jack asked from where he sat a few spots down. Despite not playing tonight, he donned his equipment, still aiming to skate the practice session with the team.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

Because I had to be. There was no question about it.

This was my chance to show the team I could step up and be a leader when asked. That I had the skills and the determination to win.

Stepping out onto the rink for practice, I waved at the small group of fans who had been allowed inside the arena before picking up a puck and skating down to join the coaches. Any lingering nerves I had around the prospect of starting were pushed out of my head as I focused on the game.

Circuit drills were run one by one, with the assistant coaches pulling a few of the new additions aside to offer words of advice. Plays were run with our new linemates in hopes that everyone would mesh well and work together. Changes were made to the penalty kill and power play lines, and Coach made sure any reservations players had about the tweaks he'd made to our game strategy were eradicated.

With pre-game adrenaline coursing through my body, practice ended on a high note, and I had faith every skater set to play tonight would take the dice and roll with them.

The hours spanning between practice and the game, however, were the longest. Some players sought alone time to get their minds 100% focused. Some players had wacky rituals they needed to perform, like doing a handstand or changing into their lucky boxers, and some players, like myself, needed to simply soak in the down time and not let their thoughts wander too much. The latter of which typically consisted of eating just enough at the team buffet to fill us up, shooting the breeze in the locker room, and keeping our muscles warm by taking a soccer ball to the empty back halls of the arena to juggle it amongst ourselves.

And when the thirty-minute countdown for the game began to wind down, we were ushered back to the locker room, where our navy jerseys hung, waiting to be worn.

"Alright men," Coach said, clapping as he stepped into the room. His voice was loud and pronounced, gathering everyone's attention. "Tonight's the last game of the regular season, and while we may have already cemented a spot in the playoffs, Chicago hasn't. But they can, with a win tonight, and that's not what we want." His gaze arced over the room. "I want you all to show them we can dominate even when we have nothing to lose. Play as though everything is on the line and play with your hearts.

"I can't promise you guys it won't be rough out there, and with the adjustments we've made tonight, I can almost guarantee they'll think we're stepping down to hand them the win. But you guys can handle it. I know you can. You've all trained your asses off this season, so now it's time to show them what the Knights are truly made of."

I hollered, cheering along with the rest of my teammates, and even as the volume in the room hit a decline once everyone resumed getting ready, the energy didn't.

We were pumped up and hungry for a win.

Minutes later, I was ready to go, bouncing from skate to skate when the first echoes of music reached the locker room.

They'd opened the passageway to the ice. It was go time.

"Alright guys," Jack said, standing at the entrance of the locker room, having changed back into his suit. He looked around at all of us, a grin on his lips. "Go get 'em."

"Aye, aye, captain," Orlov teased, mock saluting as he passed him and headed for the ice.

Chuckles filled the room as players began to follow suit. Joining the line, I grabbed my stick and knocked gloves with Nyberg for good luck before making my way down the tunnel.

The crowd roared above the music as my skates hit the ice, and the familiar feeling of awe filled me. Knowing that video clips of our season played above on the jumbotron, watching the hometown fans surge to their feet, and seeing the lights color the ice—it all created a spine-tingling sense of excitement.

One I doubted would ever get old.

Taking it all in, I circled our end of the rink with my teammates, momentarily lifting my gaze to where I knew the team's suite was located. Where everyone I cared about was watching and cheering me on.

Cheering the Knights on.

And when my teammates slowly started to head for the bench, I stayed out, honing my focus to the task at hand. Letting everything outside the boards of the rink fade away.

This was just another game—three periods, sixty minutes, who-knows-how-many goals. But it was also my chance to prove I was capable of playing against our top competitors while steering our team to victory.

And I had no intention of wasting it.