The biggest burden in that is that I have no fucking clue where she stands. I’m afraid of her. Of what she makes me feel, and every instinct within me screams to run away from her.
But there are more important things weighing on me right at this moment.
Like the fact that the Cold Fury is on a very dangerous precipice and we are in extreme peril of falling in.
It’s game seven of the series with Atlanta. While we steamrolled over them the first three games, they have fought, scrapped, and clawed against defeat, and in a move that has sports announcers shaking their heads, managed to win the next three games.
We are tied 3-3 and the final game is going to be decided tonight in the Cold Fury’s arena.
It’s not, of course, looking good for us. This game has been dirty and exhausting, and we’ve fought for every goal we made. The Sting is fighting hard too. They can taste a Cinderella upset and they probably want it more than we do at this point.
The game is tied 2-2, and with only a little more than two minutes left in the game, Sting player Peter Dietra had a breakaway and was streaking down the ice toward Max. I sat on the bench and helplessly watched as Claude chased him down, and knowing that he’d never reach him in time, managed to jab his stick under Dietra’s skate and pull him to the ice in an exaggerated penalty to save the goal. Dietra and Claude went skidding across the ice straight toward Max. They crashed into him and three bodies dislodged the net with the force of a sonic boom as they slid together in a pile of skates, sticks, and muscle.
Claude and Dietra immediately jumped up, threw the gloves down, and started fighting it out.
My eyes stayed pinned on Max, who rolled on the ice in pain as he tried to clutch his way past the bulky pads to grab at his knee. I knew it was bad. I knew he was coming off the ice. I knew, before the training staff even reached him, that one of the assistant managers was running back to the locker room to get Ryker.
It was definitely Max’s knee, and whatever it was was severe enough that he could not get off the ice without assistance. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes there are injuries terrible enough to warrant a stretcher, and this just happened to be one of those times.
Ryker stepped out onto the ice a few minutes ago and is in the process of stretching. He’s ice cold, having been sitting in the locker room and watching the game on a TV monitor. He’ll be stiff, and without having been caught up in the ferocity of play out on the ice, he won’t be as invested.
Not that his heart won’t be in it, but his mind won’t be as involved.
Simple fact of backup goalies.
We are so fucked.
And to make matters worse, because Claude hooked a breakaway player, Atlanta is going to have a penalty shot on Ryker. They’re going to have an opportunity here really soon to seal this game.
As they lift Max to the stretcher and start to strap him down, I skate over to Ryker, who has now lifted himself up off the ice from his stretches and is skating in small circles.
He sees me approach and gives me a wry smile. “Not how I wanted to get in the game.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze as we watch them start to wheel Max away.
“You got this,” I tell him confidently. “You’re a fucking veteran. One of the best goalies in history.”
“Damn straight,” he says back, with a flash of teeth and a confident smile. “Not going to let that puck in.”
“We’ll celebrate over beers when we put these fuckers away,” I counter.
“I’ll be the hero of the century once I seal this up,” he says with a chuckle, and I give him one back.
But then we quiet and get serious, because our banter is born from nervousness and we need to push that aside.
“Seriously,” I tell him as I step in close, put my hand on top of his head, and tap my helmet against his. “You got this.”
“I got it,” he says, and then turns away from me to take his place in front of the net.
—
I need Kate.
I don’t want to need Kate. I don’t want to need Kate.
But I need her.
I wait for her while she puts Ben to bed and my mood becomes stormier.
There’s an underlying poison flowing through my veins right now because we lost the game. And we should have lost it. We’ve been playing like shit and I don’t care what any fan or sports announcer says, it’s not fair to put the series loss on Ryker’s shoulders.
The guy hadn’t played in more than a month and was expected to come into the game ice cold and face a penalty shot from one of the better players in the league?
Fucking impossible.
Ryker did his best. He almost had it too, but the puck wobbled, turned end over end, took a hop off the ice, and dribbled in right underneath his pads.