So, bring it.
Boston does and the refs are on guard due to how many penalty minutes we’ve been racking up over this series, but at least they’re not calling any cheap penalties.
Every faceoff is a cutthroat grapple for the puck and the goalies are quick to dump the puck into the neutral zone to keep it in play.
Our passing game is on point and that’s how we score our first goal. From me, to Stacey, to Casey, back to me, back to Stacey … he looks … he shoots …wide… Scores!
The arena erupts. Fans jump out of their seats. Horns blow. There’s chanting. The players on the bench hop over to celebrate like it’s the winning goal, but we’re far from that. We’re only five minutes into the first period, but helluva a start.
I like the image in my head of my family and the Meyer’s out there watching. It fuels me.
Something fuels Boston too. It’s not long after that goal that they draw a penalty—which isn’t hard given the intensity of the nail-biting game—and give themselves the power play. They score immediately. Fucking dammit. From there, it’s on.
There are fights—it’s a hockey game after all—but I’d say this is the least fight-driven game we’ve ever played against Boston, putting our heads down, focused on putting the puck in the net. It’s not happening though. No one is scoring. We leave the first period tied.
Coach prowls around the locker room, telling us what he saw while we refuel and lick our wounds. We’re all hurting in some way, and this is just the beginning. I can’t help admiring Merc when he’s in coach mode. He’s so fucking sexy with that brooding expression darkening his cornflower blues. The way his sharp, dark eyebrows narrow together like a panther stalking you. His muscles brim with the posture of confidence. He’s in his zone. He was made for this. He’s proved himself to us over and over, enough that each one of us hangs off his advice, nodding along, ready to go back into battle for him.
A tie game keeps the crowd on edge and Boston doesn’t fuck around in the second period. They’re smarter with their hits. Two minutes in, Dirk is down after a massive slam into the boards by Lukkovnov and the crowd is booing. But it’s his own stick that catches him in the face so no penalty. It’s an accident for once and he ends up with a broken nose, but after a quick patch up from our medical team, he’s back on the ice.
I’m off toward the attack zone on a break, headed straight for the net with the crowd roaring their approval. I only just catch the stone wall barreling at me, but not in time to do anything about it, and am effectively taken out by one of their defensemen. It gets frustrating quickly. We can’t for the life of us get by them and the harder we push, the harder they find legal ways to beat the shit out of us or draw penalties that give them the power play and make us work harder still.
It's a wonder that we’ve managed to maintain our tie by the end of the second and it’s clear by the aura in the locker room that we’re all ready to die. If we thought we knew pain by the end of the first, there’s a new definition by the end of the second.
Mercy is the eye of the storm, remaining calm no matter what’s going on and believe me, there’s a lot swirling around him. Tension. Twenty sweaty and broken hockey men who are reaching bloodthirsty levels. He gets us all to close our eyes, take collective breaths and envision winning—though I’m sure some of us are also envisioning pounding on Boston a little bit.
Boston scores off the faceoff in the first minute of play in the third period. It’s like a punch to the gut. With how hard it’s been just to break from their solid defense, that little niggle of hopelessness crawls under my skin, and I do what I can to shut that train down, but it’s hard to drum up faith when every bone in my body throbs.
Casey loses his battle with testosterone and earns a fucking five-minute major near the end of the period, for instigating a fight and then lipping off the refs—at least that’s how it was called. It was really because he went after Sutter like he wanted to kill him, probably because he does.
What is up with those two?They’re on each other more than usual—if that can be believed—and that’s saying a lot.
I get it. I’ve been there, but it fucking sucks right now. Being a man down is harder than ever. My heart’s racing so fast. My lungs run out of breath and burn when I push them to keep going anyway. My muscles are close to seizing no matter how many electrolytes I try to gulp down when I’m on the bench. I’ve lost a stick. Had to retape another one. My gear is a gross and uncomfortable sauna of sweat. It’s all getting tossed out straight after this game.
“Change!” Coach shouts from the bench and I’m all too happy to skate off for a minute or two, which is not a winning attitude. He immediately grabs me by the helmet. “Stop it, Leslie. You need to get a fucking goal. Do it.”
“Because that’s not what I’ve been tryna do this whole time. What would I do without your helpful fucking advice?” I lose my mitts and drop my stick, reaching for one of the bottles of sports drink and squeeze some into my mouth.
Fuckin’, score a goal, Leslie!Yeah, sure. Okay, Coach. What the fuck was that? Like I don’t want to. Like I don’t want to see that damn piece of rubber go into the net more than I want to keep breathing right now.
Watching my team and not being out there is even worse, even though I know I need a minute to let my muscles rest. They need an eternity, but a minute or two is all they’re getting. Doesn’t matter at this point. My limbs can fall off for all I care. I need to be out there. Sitting back here makes me want to set my brain on fire, unable to do anything but hope and pray we don’t let anything in for five minutes.
Penalty killing isn’t what we want to be doing right now. It’s bad enough when you’re full steam and we are not full steam.
Merc pulls the goalie and I give him a look that says I’m questioning his sanity. You’ve got to be kidding me! But I don’t argue. He’s the coach, if he wants to make sure this game is completely flushed down the toilet, far be it from me to stop him.
He’s put out a fresh line too, not a bad thing, but they’re probably our weakest line.
All five men spread out and engage in a game of cat-and-mouse puck passing to kill off this exhaustingly long penalty. Boston has been relying on a take-down style all night, but just as they decide on whom to take out—whoever has the puck—it’s passed forward or back. At one point, Lummi and McTavish are behind our net, idly engaged in a game of pass while the Boston offensive tries and fails to recover the puck.
It’s entertaining and funny as fuck. It gives me a much-needed morale boost and I forget all about my aching joints. I check back with Coach who has his arms crossed, staring at me with a knowing smirk because he could tell I was internally judging his calls. “You’re up, Leslie. What are you going to do?”
“Score a goal, Coach.” Shorthanded. Somehow. Because he’s not just sending me back, but our goalie too.
As soon as I hit the ice, we’re immediately chased back to the defensive zone. It’s me and Stacey as the only forward players on the ice for our team with two of our defensemen who get in front of Bers Stronghold, our goaltender, but slowly carry up the ice with us. I catch Lukkovnov in my left periphery, looking toward the goal. As he flicks his wrist to pass across to his teammate, I’m able to reach my stick out just enough to knock it wide, but by this time he’s skated passed me, having expected his pass to sail true.
Only it hasn’t.
And holy fuck. An opportunity has risen.
