“Denver, for sure. They’ve got Mellon and Trinsky and without a totally focused and healthy Milligan, Boston has problems.”
I changed the station and muted the sound, staring blankly at the wall behind the flat-screen. My body hurt, my head hurt, and all I could think was…Fuck.
Just…fuck.
Fuck the reporters, fuck the fucking Condors, and most of all, fuck Mason Trinsky.
2
TRINSKY
Game seven of the Stanley Cup.
We were tied two apiece, one minute and fifty seconds on the clock. The roof of the arena was rattling. Denver’s fans wanted this win as much as we did. Sure, Ontario was good, but we were better. One more lamplighter to seal the deal.
Denny glided along the perimeter, the puck glued to the edge of his stick. He was pure ice, no expression on his face. His focus was laser sharp as he signaled for me to shift. This was it.
I skated into the lane, took the puck to mid-rink, and passed it to Minorsk. I closed in, creating a screen while Denny moved in for the kill.
We had this. I could feel it. The Denver Condors were about to win the fucking Stanley Cup…again.
All we needed was for Minorsk to sling the puck to Mellon, who’d bury it for the fucking win. The crowd would go nuts, but we’d stay in the moment, playing keep away till the buzzer ran out.
I peeked at the clock. One minute, forty seconds, and…
And suddenly, time stopped.
I was on a cloud hovering like a ghost—here and a hundred percent present, yet blissfully above it all. How was this my life? How did I get here? Did I really belong, or was someone finally going to rat me out as an impostor?
I spotted Denny Mellon’s husband, Hank, sitting with NHL legends Vinnie Kiminski, Riley Thoreau, and their husbands, Nolan and JC. Denny’s best friend, Mary-Kate, was there too with a couple of the crew from Elmwood High. It was pretty freaking cool that so many people had made the trek from Vermont to support Denny. I couldn’t see Smitty, but I knew his high school coach had to be here too along with his husband, Bryson, and probably?—
Jake.
Yep, there he was. Jake fucking Milligan.
Heat and the usual rush of animosity boiled under my skin, but I quickly let it go. Hey, I could afford to be magnanimous. I was seconds away from winning the cup, not Jake. Not that I wanted to lord it over the asshole, but—okay, maybe I did.
Yeah, I’d been in his shoes a few times, and I knew it sucked to be a spectator when everything in you wanted to be on the ice.
He looked good. A golden boy with intense eyes, edgy energy, a shiny leather jacket, and?—
What the fuck?
I tore my gaze away, scanning the stands. La Marche’s wife was doing her signature ear-piercing whistle, Minorsk’s kids were waving their arms and jumping like kangaroos, Collaran’s dad was holding a sign. Okay, fine. I’d admit, I was a teensy, tiny bit bummed I didn’t have a cheering section of my own.
I wished Eddie were here. I wished my mom could handle big lights and noise. It would have been nice to have people I cared about show up for me. I supposed I could count the girl I’d broken up with last month, who was probably in my seats takingselfies. Not the same, but hey, the fans loved me and that was more than enough.
’Cause let’s be real, this was everything I’d ever dreamed of.
This, right here, right now. The lights, the music, the voracious fans, and the clock ticking down the final moments to victory.
It was undefinable. The best damn thing ever.
Wait.
We were still tied, and Minorsk still had the damn puck. What was he doing? I glanced at Denny and winced.Shit. He had two defenders on him now. The play was fucked. I raised my stick and motioned for Minorsk to pass to me just as Ontario’s star forward swooped in, stole the puck, and raced to our goal on a breakaway.
Ontario scored.
