We leave the second period down by one.
The intermission seems to fly by. Jack and I go up to the merch shop and each pick up a Kostelecky hoodie and four foam fingers.
When we get back to our seats, I chuck one of the foam fingers at Char and then Josh. They giggle and shove their hands into their fingers, proudly waving them in the air. And the third period is underway.
The tension on the ice is palpable. The score remains tied through the first fifteen minutes. Hamonson is thrown in the penalty box for two minutes for high-sticking.
The announcer’s voice blares through the speakers. “The Nighthawks are on a power plaaaay!”
Cam gains possession of the puck, passing it off to Jensen, who slides it over to Brett Burns. Brett dishes it to Alec. Only one player stands between Alec and the goalie. Alec throws it back to Cam and then slaps his stick on the ice.
The quick movement draws the player away from Alec. Cam throws it back to Alec. And as the puck glides toward him, he winds up and shoots.
Andmisses.
“Kostelecky misses again! We’ve never seen this from him. What is going on tonight?!” the announcer screams into the mic.
The Mystics take off with the puck. They barrel toward our goal. The winger’s shot bounces off the pole. Matt dives out of the crease, aiming to grab the puck.
Number 48 on the Mystics digs into the ice and takes off for Matt. A sonic boom erupts in the air as number 48 attacks Matt, checking him back into the net. Matt bounces off the pole with a deafening thud.
The crowd falls silent.
Except for our boys.
All five of them take off after number 48.
But the other team dives in, each matching with a Nighthawk.
And Alec makes his choice—number 48.
Alec flicks his wrists, his gloves shooting down and onto the ice. Number 48 reciprocates. And fists fly. Alec lands blow after blow, and blood marks the ice. The second number 48 hits the ground, the refs interfere, pulling Alec off of him. It takes two of the three refs.
The rest of the boys are still lost in their fights. Once Alec is off the guy and escorted to the bench, the refs break up the fights one by one.
Eventually, all the fights are broken up, and the refs kick all twelve boys out of the game.
Matt is able to get up, but he looks very confused and dazed. Coaches and trainers guide him off the ice.
The crowd cheers and chants for Matt, and it continues as the final face-off puck is dropped.
And the Nighthawkslosethe game.
Because of Alec.
Because of Jack and me. We pulled his attention during the first shot, and I don’t think it’s too far of a leap to know that we are why his head was so out of the game tonight.
The aftermath of the game is just as energetic as the pregame, if not more. Except everyone is booing the Nighthawks and talking about how Alec was the reason they lost tonight. We hastily make our way out of the seating area and are heading out of the arena when I hear my name being called.
I turn, confused. And my heart plummets to my stomach, and chills sweep my arms when the head coach approaches me.
I swivel, checking for Jack. But I see his hand locked in Charlotte’s, and they’re already heading out of the door.
“Can I speak with you for a second?” The coach’s tone is as cold as the rink.
“Of course.”
What am I going to do, say no to Alec’s coach? Nope.
