Half dead or useless, like he was.
“Tell me about the ranch,” he requested. “What are you guys doing these days?”
He let Rusty’s words wash over him as the second intermission dragged on. Rusty’s voice was comforting, soothing a little of the ragged hole in Cross’s chest. In the locker room, Pushkin would be drinking a protein shake of his own recipe and staring into space. No one would break his focus. Scotty was probably with the trainers, taking whatever relief they could give him. Kenny would be juggling beanbags, his favorite focus routine.
Cross could picture the room, the guys, every familiar face, hands, skates, the sweat, the frowns, the laughs a bit wilder than usual as they geared up for one last effort. No, not last. He wouldn’t think that word. One next effort. The game winner, to bring them back home for game six.
Rusty’s tone warned him to open the eyes he’d somehow closed. Both teams were filing onto the ice. Third period. “Do it, guys,” he murmured, “Come on, come on.”
They started the period a man down. Edmonton took control off the opening faceoff and they couldn’t clear it out of the zone. Fifteen seconds later, Pushkin misjudged a rebound and a player knocked the flying puck out of the air and into the net.Two-one.
“Shit,” Rusty growled.
“Yeah.”
“You guys can get one back.”
“Sure can.” Cross’s chest ached.
Play resumed at center ice, but even full strength, all the action ended up around the Rafters’ net, until Scott broke them free and flew down the ice.
“Go, Scotty! Come on!” Cross leaned forward, willing him strength.
Scott cut over the blue line and passed to Vicki. Vicki’s shot ticked the underside of the crossbar and dropped into the Edmonton net. The horn sounded.
“Score!” Rusty’s yell almost broke Cross’s phone speaker. But then he added, “Now what?”
Cross was watching too as the Rafters’ celebration paused on the ice. “Challenge.”
“For what? Vicksberg was nowhere near the goalie.”
On the screen, video began replaying the rush up the ice. Vickie’s skates at the blue line, Scott’s stick and the puck, skates ahead, puck six inches behind, skates, puck. Cross’s stomach dropped.
Sure enough, they cut to the head referee who announced, “Portland goal was challenged for offside. On review, the challenge was upheld. No goal.”
“Shit.” Rusty ran his hands over his head. “What the fuck?”
“I think Scotty’s skating a step slow with his ribs. Vicki didn’t compensate and went offside.”
“Well, fuck.”
Two minutes later, Edmonton scored at even strength, making the game three to one. Not insurmountable, but the Rafters’ frustration was almost palpable. They were rushing their passes, not finishing checks. Even Pushkin, reeling under a flurry of scoring chances, left his net to go for a poke check and missed, leaving the goal wide open.Fourto one.
Rusty grunted like he’d taken a shoulder to the chest, but said nothing. Cross clenched his fists till his nails bit into his palms.
The Rafters didn’t give up. With five minutes left, they pulled the goalie. Six on five, they battled around the Edmonton net. A shot hit the post, another squirted out from under the Edmonton netminder right to Goldie who flicked it top shelf.Goal!
Four, two.
Cross cheered, despite the ache in his chest that said too little, too late.
Rusty yelled, “Fuck yeah, Goldie. Come on! Two more.”
The Rafters controlled the faceoff, kept the puck in the Edmonton zone. Cross wanted to be in there so bad it hurt. He held his breath, his chest aching.Do it, guys!Bozeman took a shot that the Edmonton goalie barely got a glove on but he controlled the rebound, dropped it to his own defenseman, who passed it to their center, who shot it down the ice.
Everyone watched as the puck skipped, slid, passed over the blue line and down into the open net.
Five to two. With less than three minutes left.
