Page 89 of Two for Charging

As Luca expected, the game was a nightmare.

The Montreal Wyverne were a classic wildcard team. On good nights, they were very, very good. But four games out of ten, their passes didn’t connect, and their backcheck was sloppy. Unfortunately, the Sea Lions hadn’t come during one of those four games. They had every disadvantage: jet lag from flying across the continent at an ungodly hour; their starting goalie injured; and, worst of all, Howie playing like utter shit.

He was a top six forward, a role no coach gave out lightly, but for some reason, he couldn’t make it happen tonight.

If ever a time came for an inspiring pep talk, Luca had to admit it would be now. Mooney had tried, on the bus from the hotel, to make sure Howie knew that no one blamed him for Dmitriyev’s injury. Howie had snapped, “Of course not.”

He refused to speak with anyone else all day.

Even Lindy couldn’t pep talk a sullen child.

Still, when Howie gave up the puck within minutes and the Wyverne scored immediately after, Luca winced on the bench.

Lindy sent the first line out again immediately after the goal, and they did their best to retaliate. But Montreal’s goalie had a much better save rate than Nilsson, and to top it off, they had a string of ridiculous puck luck in the first ten minutes.

They gave up another one in the first period. This time, it wasn’t Howie’s fault, but it happened during his shift, meaning his plus/minus for the game was fucked. Loath as Luca was to admit it, in this case, the stat did say something about the quality of Howie’s play. They entered the second two behind with morale at an all-time low. Vanderbilt managed to draw a penalty, allowing Luca to assist on Jax’s goal on the power play. But then Montreal scored again as soon as the second line went out, when Howie dropped a pass from Mooney he should have gotten easily.

“Enough,” Lindy said as the third line took the ice. “Howard, you’re benched until you can get your head on straight.”

Howie threw his stick on the ground with an unimpressive clatter.

Lindy didn’t put him on again during regulation and, instead, shuffled Fedorov into the second line. On his third shift he passed to Mooney, who got a bar down goal with a slapshot so hard the clang of the puck against the metal reverberated through Luca’s teeth.

“One more, guys,” Phil chanted, pacing behind the bench. “Come on. You can do one more.”

They could, via a nasty tip-in by Abrahamov on the third line, which should have counted as interference, but the refs somehow let slide. The game went into overtime, a brutal fast-paced three-on-three that left the top players gasping every time. Luca played with Mooney and Fedorov, and while, in theory, Luca liked the combination, they weren’t accustomed to each other. A shot on goal from Fedorov went wild. Luca caught it on the rebound, but when he tried to pass to Mooney, the puck went out of bounds.

They switched for Tom, Jax, and Chris, and Jax dropped the face-off.

“Fuck,” Phil whispered. “Come on, guys.”

Luca needed a new seat on the bench. Sitting in front of Phil ratcheted up his anxiety.

Montreal had the puck, and they hurtled toward the defensive zone. Tom was hot on the opposing centerman’s heels, but just as he leaned in for the check, the centerman passed, and the puck went to the other side of the ice where Jax struggled to catch up.

Luca frowned.

Jax was usually one of their fastest players.

And his sudden slowness was about to lose them the game. Montreal headed for their goal at breakneck speed. Tom chased them from the wrong side of the ice, while Jax limped for the bench—and then Chris shot across the defensive zone in one of his incredible bursts of speed and power. He threw himself bodily in front of the goal right in time, catching the puck with his thigh and blocking the goal.

The bench roared for him.

Luca could not restrain himself from hugging Chris as soon as he hopped the boards. “So good,” he called. “You’re so good!”

Chris returned the hug eagerly, and Luca let it be enough. He could hug Chris before games and during cellies. He could forget how it felt when they weren’t both wearing chest protectors and helmets. As long as he at least had this, he would survive.

The game went to a shootout.

Jax couldn’t play; he had to go back with the trainers. His skate had fallen apart, parts of the plastic casing breaking off to stab his foot through his socks, and they were making sure he hadn’t sprained his ankle or hurt anything vital when it happened. His absence left the Sea Lions without one of their top scorers.

“So?” Lindy gave Howie an unimpressed look.

“I can do it.”

Lindy sent Howie in first. He went top shelf, and the goalie caught it without breaking a sweat. Montreal scored. So did Tom, but Fedorov didn’t make it on the third try, and Montreal did.

“Wasn’t even worth it,” Chris sighed mournfully in the locker room, showing off a bruise the size of a puck already forming on the thick muscle of his thigh.