Page 128 of Ricochet
Stone and I are the first out of the gate at the start of the third. We take control of the puck, and the two of us pass it back and forth as we fly into Maine’s zone.
I’m reminded of the drills we ran with Nate back when I was starting to question my hatred toward Stone. We’re able to keep it away from the opposing defensemen like we finally figured out how to do with Nate that day. But, this time, I feed our captain the puck where he’s waiting in the slot. He catches it on his blade and shoots a wrister at the net.
Nate ties up the score less than a minute into the third.
We converge on him, slapping him on the back and shoulders, before the first line skates off the ice.
As the clock begins winding down, our nerves ratchet up a notch. There are more penalties and power plays and blocks at the net. When I’m called for a minor after tripping an opposing player on a scoring chance, Stone shakes his head disappointedly at me on my way to the penalty box. However, I don’t miss his playful grin.
I watch nervously from the sin bin as the player takes his penalty shot, worried my penalty would be in vain. Fortunately, Fitz blocks it, and the other team’s power play ends without a goal.
Once my penalty is killed, I rush back out onto the ice. Nate feeds me the puck, and I carry it up the left wing. I can feel a presence coming up beside me. I see him in my periphery, coming at me at full speed. I pump my legs faster, harder. Just as he’s nearly on top of me, he’s impeded by another body crashing right into his back and throwing him up against the boards behind me. The ref’s whistle blows.
I spin around to see the player I tripped earlier in a heap on the ice and Stone standing over him, glaring down.
The guy didn’t even clip me, and Stone looks ready to murder him for the attempt.
I’m no longer surprised.
He gets a major penalty for checking from behind, and it’s my turn to give him a disapproving look. Mine is without the playful grin.
There are six minutes left in the third, and now Maine gets a five-minute power play.
While Stone has been a lot better about showing some self-restraint on the ice, he still occasionally slips. It’s never been as bad as the game where he wouldn’t stop until that other player’s blood was sprayed across the ice, but he’s at least been able to control himself more since.
“Really?” I ask as I skate next to him on his way to the sin bin. “Couldn’t even help yourself duringthisgame?”
He spins and skates backward to smirk at me. “It’s my last game. If I had to choose between taking a penalty for you and making one last shot, I’d choose the penalty.”
Shaking my head, I watch him skate away and step into the penalty box.
The first line heads to the bench, and Brooks’s goes out. They manage to hold the tied score, as does our third line. I’m reenergized by the time I get back out there, determined to make sure Stone doesn’t regret choosing his protectiveness for me over the last game of his hockey career.
Maine is applying pressure. A fucking lot of it. Nate and I skate around the slot, doing what we can to help our defensemen protect Fitz and the crease from the puck. The moment it whizzes straight past my shoulder, I swear it takes my heart with it.
When I turn, I expect to see the puck in the back of the net. Instead, Fitz stands there with it in his glove.
We all tap our sticks against our goalie’s pads before skating out to the circle. Nate takes the puck drop and manages to snatch it away from the other team’s captain. He snaps it to me, and I take it back into Maine’s zone. I weave around a defenseman and loop around the net along the boards. In the corner, I peer back in search of an open man. Nate is fully covered, and I’ve got defensemen rushing my way.
Then Stone breaks out of the penalty box and skates out to the blue line. I hadn’t realized how much time had ticked down, that we actually managed to kill his five-minute penalty.
I feed him the puck, straight down that invisible force that connects us stronger than ever.
It hits his tape, and he skates back, passing it to one of our defensemen. It gets passed to Nate, then back to Stone. I’m circling around the slot, watching him. Waiting.
Our eyes meet.
He slaps the puck across the ice. I catch it on my blade and snap it toward the net. The goalie gets a piece of it, but it slips past, just inside the post.
It hits the back of the net, and the lamp lights up at the same time the buzzer sounds.
Cheers erupt throughout the stadium, both on and off the ice. My teammates all rush at me, the rest of them jumping over the wall from the bench and skating out toward us.
Stone finds me first, his strong arms wrapping around me as he lifts me up until my blades leave the ice. Gloves and sticks get thrown all over. Stone lowers me, then removes my helmet before taking off his own.
Before I have any idea what he plans on doing, his lips are on mine.
For a brief second, the noise of the crowd grows louder. Our teammates whistle and holler.