But I can’t lie; it was also a relief to leave our friendship intact.
Maybe we can be friendswithbenefits. Even saying it in my head sounds stupid. Cheap.
What were her rules again?
No sex in either of our beds, no sleeping over, no sticking around. Easy to follow when she’s across the state. Less easy when her delicious aroma fills my senses and her smile becomes my world.
Thanks for everything! Good luck the next series! I’ll be cheering for you!
That’s the next morning’s text from Elise, each exclamation point like a sucker punch. The message is friendly and casual but so goddamn frustrating.
Focus. I should focus on the next team we have to beat.ThatI can do.
Playoff hockey is its own new season. Even teams with strong winning records can be toppled by those who barely made it into the playoffs.
Despite the skill and precision the sport requires, there’s araw, improvised aspect that sets it apart. You can plan all you want, but the unexpected swerve of a hit, the battle against the boards, the burst of speed, the desperate puck block—all these factors can be worth more than a perfect shot.
The underdog, perhaps less talented on paper, can tap into the reservoirs of their desperation.
The Miami Sharks came out of a brutal series against their state rival, and it shows. Our opponents are pumped and bruised and angry.
Desperation fuels grit, and grit wins games.
We, however, are playing like we stumbled out from a nap.
Although we practiced and scrimmaged while waiting for their series to end, we haven’t had a real game in five days.
We’re a better team, but they’re sharper.
Meaner.
The viciousness of their hits and the relentless shots on goal take us by surprise.
Me, most of all.
By the time the second period ends in the first game, I’ve let in two goals.
“This is our game, not theirs! Our arena, not theirs!” Coach Zach bellows in the locker room. “The third period, we’re going to fight for every inch of that ice! I want shots on goal, I want checks that rattle their teeth, and I want every single one of you to play like you’re goddamn professionals!”
Mumblings of agreement spread amongst the seated players. Our coach looks at Dexter. The captain takes the spot in the middle of the room, standing over the Mavericks logo imprinted bright on the carpet.
“Coach is asking us to dig deep for this third period,” Dex begins in a determined tone. “Every pass, every shot, every check—make it count. Remember why you love this game. The firsttwo periods didn’t go our way, but guess what? We haven’t even shown them what we’ve got. Let’s do that now. It’s our time!”
Hollering and fist pumping boost everyone’s spirits.
I’m pushed to the front of the line. Waves of encouragement carry me to the ice and bolster me between the metal posts of my net.
Our first solid play comes nearly halfway through the period. We’re running out of time. Everyone is frustrated. Penetrating the offensive zone has gotten more difficult since the team ahead is playing defensively.
The Sharks are holding the blue line like it’s the entrance to a fort.
Sergei is forced to skate all the way behind my net to redo our set up, which hasn’t clicked all night. He gains some speed, and I watch my teammates go on attack.
Gordon takes a high elbow hit on the boards but manages the precise pass to Lance. The crowd stirs as Lance controls the puck in a burst of energy.
Our star player streaks down the middle in a breakaway, stick handling like there’s glue on his blade. I hear the crowd roar before the red flash of the goal light. That’s what I’m talking about! I bang my stick on the ice so hard, the vibrations go through my body. We’re within one goal.
After the celebration, we hunker down. My eyes are fixed on the chaos unfolding. Everyone is playing dirty now; it might as well be a street fight in a hockey rink. Sticks swing, bodies collide, and the referees’ verbal warnings are muffled by grunts and crashes. I make a few key saves before Coach Zach calls a timeout.
