“And you’re still a dick.”
The United Center is deafening as we skate out of the tunnel. Flashing lights illuminate our path as we step onto the dark ice, but the announcers, fans, and blaring music drown out each other so much so that the only thing I can hear is my own thumping heartbeat. My short breaths don’t do much to fill my lungs as I glide across the ice for warm-ups, but I can’t help it. This is the most nervous I’ve ever been for a game.
Logan meets Maddison down at the glass just as she does every game. I usually give them shit, but I’m too focused tonight.
“Eleven!” the referee shouts. “Take your ring off.”
Confused, I look down at my hands, my gloves sitting on the bench as I take a drink of water. I already took all my rings off, including my chain. They’re sitting in my locker stall as we speak. But then I see it. Stevie’s tiny ring, barely visible on my pinky finger, that I completely forgot to tape over. It’s too late now. The ref already saw it.
“No,” I argue.
He skates up to me, confused. “What?”
“I’m not taking it off.”
“Then you’re not playing.”
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.” Maddison leaves the glass, quickly skating over to the referee and me. He puts his body between us. “He’s playing. He’ll take it off.”
Maddison grabs my jersey, dragging me to skate with him back down the tunnel, hidden from anyone else’s view. “Take the fucking ring off your finger.”
“No.”
“Zee, stop being ridiculous. Take it off your fucking finger.”
I don’t respond, but I also don’t make a move to remove it.
Maddison softens his approach. “It doesn’t mean anything, man. Stevie will forgive you. I know she will. Just give me sixty minutes of hockey, then we’ll figure that out afterward, yeah?”
I stay silent.
“Did you know I have a note that Logan wrote me in college during Senior Showcase that I still read before every game? But even if I didn’t have it with me or forgot to read it, it doesn’t mean she loves me any less. It’s just a symbol, and you’re holding on to that ring because you think it’s all you have of Stevie right now.”
It takes a moment of reflection, but finally, I give him a resigned nod and unwillingly slip Stevie’s ring off my finger. I look around for somewhere safe to put it, not able to head back into the locker room.
“I mean, I’m not a monster. Tie it to your fucking lace and tuck it in your skate or something.”
I level him with a look. “Fucking sap.”
He unapologetically pops his shoulders.
The national anthem, starting announcements, and pre-game rituals fly by in an instant, and without realizing it, we’re in the first period.
Nerves are high on our bench. Passes aren’t connecting, transitions aren’t smooth, and line swaps are mistimed. On the other hand, Pittsburgh is playing like they have nothing to lose because, well, they don’t. Down 3-0 in the finals while playing on the road has everyone betting against them, and they’re playing like it. Their hits are hard, shots are firing nonstop, and they’re skating fast and loose.
They score twelve minutes into the first period, giving them the 1-0 lead.
During the first intermission, our coach lectures us on playing scared and reminds us that we’re back on a plane to Pittsburgh tomorrow for game five if we don’t win tonight. I want to win at home, we all do, and the last thing I need is to get on that plane and remember Stevie’s not there.
That’s the first time she pops into my head during the game, and I shake her off, needing to focus once again.
I draw a penalty early in the second period when one of the Pittsburgh forwards high sticks me, splitting my cheek as red pours from my skin and onto the ice.
I barely feel it. Too much adrenaline is coursing through my veins to notice pain. But it gives us the man-advantage, and one of our second-year forwards scores in the first twenty seconds of the power play, tying the game and settling the boys’ nerves.
The period consists of equal shots on goal, Rio and I holding off Pittsburgh’s top line. They do the same to Maddison and his wingers.
We end period two tied 1-1.
The third and hopefully final period begins quiet—no chirping, barely any talk on the ice, nerves back and evident on both sides. For Pittsburgh, it’s the fear that this is the end of the season. For us, it’s the realization that this could be it. We can win the Cup in these final twenty minutes, and that’s scary as hell.
Momentum trades off between our two teams. Shifts are short, giving our tired legs their much-needed rest. Pittsburgh fires off a shot with only three minutes left, and it buzzes past our goaltender’s glove, but by some miracle, it hits the crossbar instead of flying into the back of the net.
The crowd gasps in fear, everyone on their feet. I’m not going to lie, the scare causes my heart to skip a beat.
Two more shifts, and time is winding down in the third when I hop the ice for my turn. Maddison and our top line got on ten seconds ago, so we have our best players for this final run.
Pittsburgh’s center bodies past me to our goalie, and by a miracle of a save, the puck bounces off his pads, and I sweep the rebound off the boards and out of our zone. The ricochet lands on Maddison’s stick while keeping him onside, and he uses his speed to zip into our offensive zone.
He’s the fastest guy on the ice, and it shows when he lands in front of Pittsburgh’s goal in a blink of an eye. And with just under a minute left in the third, he goes five-hole, the puck finding the back of the net as he lights the lamp with the potential game-winning goal.
My stick is on the ground as I charge at him, throwing my body on his, pinning him to the boards. The rest of the boys follow suit as our home crowd erupts, hands slapping the glass and sirens blaring.
We make our way past our bench, knocking gloves before Maddison grabs my shoulders, eyes boring into mine. He’s holding back his smile, as am I, but we both know he just scored the Stanley Cup-winning goal on my assist.
I try to stay focused for the last sixty seconds, especially when Pittsburgh pulls their goalie, giving us a man disadvantage, but I can’t help my eyes wandering to the clock, watching the final seconds wind down.
Ten... Nine... Eight...
I propel my stick out when one of their forwards fires a shot, and somehow, I gain control, so I push the puck towards their empty net. It’s wide. We’re called for icing, and the refs gather the puck, bringing it back to our defensive zone.
Maddison lines up for his potentially final face-off of the season with four seconds left as the crowd erupts in anticipation. As I lean over, I attempt to take a breath, needing to collect myself, but I can’t. My chest is light, my pulse is racing, and my mouth is dry. I can hear everything, see everything, feel everything.
The puck drops.
Three... Two... One...