Holy shit. Nate’s out, too? They’re our best players!
“On their side, we have Jonah Hemley getting ejected. Which is no big loss to them.” Dad sneers. “The kid was filling in for Coby Chilton, who might’ve pulled a hammy. Except he didn’t pull a damn hammy, and now the power line is back in business.”
My God. This is a travesty. Panic weakens my muscles, because…we might actually lose now.
My father doesn’t vocalize my fear, but I know he’s thinking it, too. And he sounds enraged as he addresses his players. “What the hell went on down there?”
There’s a long, fearful silence. Fitz is the one who finds the balls to speak up. “From what I gathered, Hunter slept with Hemley’s girlfriend. Unknowingly,” Fitz adds.
“Is this a fucking joke? And if you’re going to screw one of their girlfriends, it couldn’t have been Connelly’s?” Dad growls. “At least then we wouldn’t have to worry about him.”
Even though I’m upset for my team, I have to swallow a wave of laughter—because I don’t think Dad would be endorsing anyone having sex with Connelly’s girlfriend if he knew it was me.
Not that I’m Jake’s girlfriend, but I am the girl in his life, and—no, I can’t think about this right now. We’re in crisis mode.
“Jesus, Rhodes. What were you thinking!” Dad is clearly livid at his captain.
I’m not too thrilled with him, either. What happened to being the better man? Nate was so adamant about taking the high road after the whipped-cream incident, ordering Wilkes not to retaliate. And now he goes and loses his cool on the ice? Retaliating against Hemley for the attack on Hunter? It’s completely unlike him.
Nate’s tone tells me that he’s as angry and disgusted with himself as my father is. “I snapped,” he says shamefully. “That asshole broke Hunter’s wrist, Coach. And then he had the balls to say Hunter deserved it. It was the most sickening thing I’d heard, and…I snapped,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, Coach.”
“I hear you, kid. But an apology ain’t gonna put you back in this game.”
AKA, we’re utterly screwed.
I edge backward and leave the locker room. “Doesn’t sound good in there,” the security man says sympathetically.
“It’s not.”
I hurry back to our seats, where I file a report with Summer and the others. “Looks like Hunter is out, and so is Nate.”
Summer gasps
So does Rupi, who as usual is dressed like a walking J. Crew ad. Or a super-prissy American Girl doll. I wonder how many girlie, collared dresses she actually owns. Thousands, probably.
“This is a disaster!” Summer moans.
“Yup,” I say morosely, and we’re not wrong.
When the second period gets underway, you can see the difference in Briar’s game almost immediately. It’s like watching an Olympic sprinter crush the first heat of the 100-meter dash, only to come out for the next heat to find that there are spikes on the track. Without Nate, the captain of the team, and Hunter, our best forward, we’re struggling right out of the gate. Fitz and Hollis can’t carry the entire team. Our younger players aren’t fully developed yet, and the best ones, Matt Anderson and Jesse Wilkes, are physically incapable of keeping up with Connelly.
My eyes track Jake as he scores early in the second. It’s a beautiful shot, a work of art. Now Harvard is leading 2–1. And two minutes before the end of the period, Weston gives Harvard a power play by drawing a penalty from Fitz, who rarely visits the box.
Summer drops her face in her manicured hands. “Omigod, this is awful.” She finally glances up, seeking out her boyfriend. “His head looks like it’s about to explode.”
Sure enough, Fitz is stewing and simmering in the penalty box. Red-faced and clenching his jaw so tight, the muscles there are actually quivering.
Harvard takes advantage of the penalty Weston the asshole provoked. And just because I played Scrabble with the guy and he helped me out with Eric doesn’t make him any less of the enemy right now. Right now I loathe him. Maybe a couple days from now we can play Scrabble again, but right now I want him erased from the face of the planet.
Unfortunately, Briar is shorthanded, and Weston is the one who ends up scoring the power-play goal. Then Fitz is back and we’re able to breathe easy again.
Weston tries the same thing on Hollis during his next shift, but Hollis doesn’t fall for it, bless his puppy-dog heart. Instead, the refs catch Weston’s dirty hit and he takes a two-minute minor, and we’re all on our feet screaming ourselves hoarse when Briar scores.
3-2 now.
The second period is over. “You can do it,” I whisper to the boys as they disappear in the chute toward the locker rooms. Hopefully my dad gives them a Miracle-worthy speech and we can come back, tie it up early in the third, and then score again and win the damn game.
“We still have a chance, right?” Summer’s eyes glimmer with hope.
“Of course we do. We got this,” I say firmly.
We’re on our feet again when the third period starts. It’s scoreless for almost six minutes, until, in the middle of a shoving battle in Harvard’s zone, Jesse Wilkes gets a shot off that careens right between Johansson’s legs. It’s a total fluke, but I’ll take it. The Briar fans go insane as the scoreboard switches to 3–3.
I can’t believe everyone is still maintaining the same level of speed that kicked off the game. They must be exhausted after two grueling periods. But both teams are still playing like the entire season is on the line. Because it is.
I’m mesmerized as I watch Jake do what he does best. He’s impossibly fast and I can’t help imagining him in Edmonton next year. He’s going to have a hell of a season if he plays even half as well as he’s playing tonight.
“He’s so good," Summer says grudgingly, as Jake literally dekes out three of our boys to charge the net.
He takes a shot. Luckily he misses, and I’m ashamed to say I experience a spark of disappointment when Corsen thwarts Jake’s attempt.
Oh God. Where do my loyalties lie? I want Briar to win. I truly do. And I hate what that Harvard player did to Hunter and Nate.
But I also want Jake to succeed. He’s magnificent.
We’re still tied, and the clock is winding down. The possibility of overtime worries me. I don’t know if we have enough juice left to hold them off. Especially Corsen. He’s good in the net, but he’s not the best.
Johansson, on the other hand, I’d definitely rank in the top three of college goalies. He stops every shot like a pro. He didn’t enter the NHL draft when he became eligible, but I hope he tries to sign with someone after college. He’s too good not to.
“Come on, guys!” Summer screams. “Let’s do this!” Her shouted encouragement is drowned out by the shouts of everyone around us.
My ears are going to be ringing hardcore after this game, but it’s worth it. There’s nothing better than live hockey. The excitement in the air is contagious. Addictive. I want to be able to do this for a living, not as a player, but a participant. I want to cheer for these athletes, talk to them while they’re still hopped up on whatever it is that makes them come alive on the ice. Adrenaline, talent, pride. I want to be part of that, in whatever capacity I can.
Three minutes left, and the score remains 3-3.
Jake’s line is back. Brooks is up to his usual tricks, except no one’s falling for them anymore. I think it’s pissing him off, judging by the hard set of his shoulders. Good. He deserves it. It won’t be dirty tricks that win Harvard this game. It’ll have to be skill. Unfortunately, they’re drowning in skilled players
There’s exactly two minutes and forty-six seconds left when Jake gets a breakaway. My heart is torn, sinking when he gets the puck, and yet soaring when he nears our net. He winds up his arm to take a shot, and it’s another work of art. A gorgeous bullet. When the announcers shout, “GOALLLLLL!” my heart is somehow caught in both a tailspin and a steep climb. I’m surprised I don’t vomit from the nauseating sensation.
Harvard is in the lead now, and we’ve only got two and a half minutes to try to tie it up again. The Briar fans in the arena are screaming. The clock keeps ticking.
Two minutes left.
A minute and a half.
Briar scrambles. Fitz gets a shot on net, and a collective groan rocks half the stands when Johansson stops it. The goalie holds on, and the whistle blows.
I cup my mouth with both hands. “Come on, boys!” I shout as they line up for the faceoff. They have one minute and fifteen seconds to make something happen.