For the next few days, Beacon set his troubles with Lauren aside the best he could. Given that his team was fighting for its life in the play-offs, he had plenty of other things to worry about. Their veteran forward Beringer was sidelined by shoulder pain that might or might not be something serious. And O’Doul skipped practice for what was rumored to be a stomach bug.
Nonetheless, they managed to win game five in Tampa, where Skews was an asshole, but nothing Beacon couldn’t handle. Then they flew back to Brooklyn for game six, feeling great.
And lost.
That left the series tied 3–3, and required one more trip to Tampa. Taking the series all the way out to game seven meant that everyone was tired. Meanwhile, Detroit beat the Rangers in just five games, so their next potential opponent was resting up and recharging their batteries before the conference final round.
By the time they got off the bus at the stadium, every one of Mike’s teammates wore an intense expression. They marched through the sticky eighty-five degree air and into the subterranean cool of the arena.
“Good luck out there,” Lauren whispered as he caught up to her in the procession.
“Thanks.” They had barely exchanged any words since their odd conversation about baby-making. He’d gone a little crazy to think that she’d take him back just like that. But it was one of those situations where he knew if he hadn’t at least tried, he’d always regret it. It had taken all his willpower not to blurt out that he hated the idea of her having someone else’s baby.
Caveman, much?
He took a sidelong glance at Lauren as the team moved through the long hallway. She looked as deflated as he felt. “You doing okay?”
“Sure am,” she said quickly. “Can’t wait until the puck drops.” Her smile was a little unsteady, though.
That was something to worry about later. “See you on the other side, okay?”
She gave him a little salute, and he followed his teammates into the dressing room.
? ? ?
Some of Beacon’s teammates were wildly superstitious. They ate the same sandwich before every game, or tucked lucky charms into their hockey socks. Beacon wasn’t very superstitious, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t believe in magic.
The game seven magic began making appearances even before the puck dropped that night.
Doulie felt better, and nobody else came down with the flu. Even better, the MRI on Beringer’s shoulder had cleared him to play. An hour before the game they gathered on a loading dock to play elimination soccer—the team’s favorite warm-up.
Beacon was the first man out, as usual. He was unaccountably bad at elimination soccer, but it was fun to step out of the circle and watch the rest of them duke it out. Tonight’s game got down to Doulie and Trevi and Silas, until Silas won it. He often did, too. The only man who never played for the team was the frequent victor of their warm-up game. Go figure.
Their good spirits held when the puck dropped, and they went out swinging. So did Tampa, though. It was a weird, high scoring game, tied 4–4 going into overtime. Somehow after all that scoring the overtime period was scoreless.
So it went to double overtime. As Mike stretched during the (fourth!) intermission he pictured his daughter in the stands with Hans and Justin, and wondered what Elsa was thinking.
We brought it this far, he said to himself. We can take it even a little further.
That final period saw the play go a little ragged. But Beacon’s eyes weren’t as tired as the rest of him. He watched everything. Saw everything. Anticipated everything.
Blocked everything.
Just when he thought his legs might not make it through another overtime period, Castro got a breakaway on rebound. There was a mad scramble in front of the opponent’s net before the lamp lit.
Even then—because nothing was ever simple—Castro’s goal was under review. They stood around for two tense minutes while the officials watched the video.
And then the scoreboard lit for Brooklyn. They’d won, and would advance to round three. Smiling and practically sagging with relief, Beacon left the net to hug his teammates.
TWENTY-ONE
When Lauren reentered the hotel lobby after the game, she found that it had become ground zero for the Bruisers’ victory party. Players’ families had taken over the entire lounge area by the fountain.
She was surveying the scene when Jimbo trotted up and squeezed her elbow. “I asked the hotel if you’d made any arrangements for food and soft drinks,” he said. “They didn’t have anything on order.”
“Right.” Lauren whipped out her Katt Phone and pulled up the catering manager’s line. “Some of the guys think it’s bad luck to plan a victory party beforehand,” she explained. “They’d rather wait an extra half hour for their chicken wings than have me jinx them.”
“Good,” Jimbo grinned. “Because I just ordered ten dozen wings and a few plates of nachos. Hope you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine. Drinks?”
“I thought I’d let you handle that. That guy in the black vest seems to be on top of things.” Jimbo pointed at an employee poking at a touch-screen terminal beside the bar.
“Good tip,” she said. “I’ll talk to him right now.”
Lauren ordered several other food items and asked the waiter to set up a table, and to rope off an alcove where they could congregate. Players would be trickling in any moment now, and this melee wouldn’t be easy for Nate’s security team to handle.
Sure enough, Castro and Beringer arrived a moment later to cheers. Lauren stationed Jimbo at the entrance to the alcove and asked him to keep an eye on things until the bus arrived with the rest of the team.
Lauren flitted about, checking on the status of the transport vehicles and taking care of business. Everyone was smiling and jubilant, yet she fought off an unhappy void right in the middle of her chest.
This morning Lauren had taken an ovulation test. It was your basic pee-on-a-stick situation, and performed in the privacy of her hotel room. A minute after executing this maneuver, the digital readout showed her a smiley face.
She’d been wearing a frowny face ever since.
A frantic call to the fertility clinic had confirmed what she already suspected—they wouldn’t perform her insemination two days from now when she was back in New York, because it wasn’t likely enough to work. “Nobody wants to waste an expensive vial of sperm,” the nurse pointed out. “It’s best to wait until next month when you’ll be in town.”
But I’m tired of waiting, Lauren complained to herself. Now that she’d made the big decision to become a mother, she wanted to get on with it. And even worse—next month this same scenario might just play out again. The road to the Stanley Cup finals could potentially stretch out another fourteen games, each one two or three days apart. It could be mid-June before the kings were crowned. If her boys survived this next series, and if Becca was still out of commission, she might miss another date with the clinic.
The room began to fill with players and even more of their loved ones. She saw Jimbo admit a couple of team alumni, too, including Dan “Chancey” Chancer and his evil troll of a wife. Great.