After a one night stand on New Year's Eve, Lia and Derrick don't expect to see one another again. After all, she's a Harvard PhD student and he's a professional hockey player for the Boston Knights - there's no way their paths should cross again.
E...
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Every hockey player lived for the thrill of game days, and I was no different. Since I was old enough to understand the rules and how to get the crowd cheering, there'd always been a familiar thrum in my chest when I stepped out onto the ice. A sense of familiarity and adrenaline—the combination of which got me pumped up and raring to go.
Once the whistle sounded, nothing else mattered except finding a way to get the puck in the other team's net.
Though Tampa's defense certainly weren't letting that happen easily.
"We got this," Coach said in the locker room after the first period ended without a single goal. "We're playing fast and getting our shots off, so keep it up. Find ways to get through their defense, because while they're strong, we're stronger."
"Hell yeah, we are!"
Coach chuckled proudly at Orlov's outburst. "I expect all of you to have that kind of determination going back out there, because we need it. It's not enough to avoid mistakes. I need each one of you to give it your all. To step up and leave everything you have out on the ice. And if you do that, I have no doubt we'll walk away with a win."
"Knights on three!" Simmons shouted, rousing the team as we headed back out.
"One, two, three, Knights!"
Returning to the game, I couldn't get Coach's words out of my head. They were cemented there, playing on repeat each time I jumped over the boards to join the action. And while that didn't magically make things easier, it did help my focus. I could sense the moves the defensemen would make before they made them, I was keyed in to where my teammates were on the ice and where I needed to be, and I let the noise of the crowd sink into the background, fixated solely on one thing.
Scoring.
And I thought I had the perfect opportunity after dekeing out a Tampa skater and circling the back of the net. But the goalie had me beat. If I would've let the shot off, I knew he would've buried it, so instead of killing the play in search of my own glory, I quickly passed the puck to Brookes. Ready and waiting on the other side of the net, his one-timer sailed cleanly into the back of the net before the Tampa goalie could even slide over and try to stop it.
With the lamp lit up, the arena erupted—cheers from the fans and music from the DJ booth—as I joined the guys in celebration. But only for a moment.
Because we all knew one goal was nothing in hockey, especially in a hard-fought game.
As the minutes of play time ticked down, it was clear to both sides that this would indeed be a nail biter. Back and forth we went, moving the puck up and down the ice. Shoving Tampa up against the boards to keep the momentum on our side as much as possible.
But something inside me still burned. A familiar feeling that came around once and a while that told me this was my game. My show.
And my time came when there were only two minutes left in the game.
