Delayed Penalty (Crossing the Line, #1)(74)

My eyes caught Ami's. She was sitting to the left of our bench with my family and Callie, all with the same nervous energy swirling in their eyes. She noticed me looking right away and gave me a thumbs up and a smile.

I winked back and looked back to the ice and then the jumbotron to check the score, as if it might have changed.

Vadim circled and then went in for the kill, guys hacking at his stick with no control. He didn't do any tricks. His mission was speed and accuracy. Cage, a little jittery facing Vadim, watched the puck and play around him, his eyes constantly darting from the puck to his stick with fierce body movement. Cage was poised, ready, knees bent, stick center.

When he got to the crease, he went up like he was going to take a slap shot but then swung a fake and then tried to just tap it. Cage read him well, played the pipes, and deflected it off his shin pads.

All of us were on our feet cheering on Cage. Play stopped; a fight broke out between Sono and a Flyer and was stopped by the refs.

"You're up," O'Brien said, nudging me forward. My brow lifted at his words.

No f*cking way, I thought. He was putting me in during overtime in the Stanley Cup? I knew my shift was coming up, but he thought I could do it. Leo skated to the bench, his time up, and then Coach motioned for me, Remy, and Leo to get back out there. He was throwing in his first line.

"No f*cking way. You serious?"

"If you don't want the chance..." he smirked, "...I'll give it to Ryan."

I barreled over that wall quicker than I ever had before.

As I circled the ice, I couldn't look up at anyone as they announced my name. The crowd intensified. Never had I heard them this loud. I couldn't look up because the nerves were so intense right then I thought for sure if I made eye contact with anyone, I'd choke.

I could hear my dad beating against the glass but couldn't look. Here was his boy, the little boy he gave up a career at playing in the pros for, playing in his first Stanley Cup game.

The final countdown was there with thirty seconds in this overtime period, each excruciating second longer than the last. I felt like I couldn't breathe, let alone make a shot if it came down to it.

With my jaw set, my eyes moved from the ice to Sealy, ready, rocking from side to side in front of their goal. Taking a deep breath, I envisioned the route I wanted to take. I wanted it. All I had to do was get the puck in the goal somehow. I wanted it bad. I wanted it for so many reasons. I wanted to win this Cup for our team, for my family, and for Ami. I wanted to show Ami that good things did happen to people. Life wasn't always bad, sometimes good things did happen, and they could make all that bad shit simply…fade.

Just like falling in love, becoming a legend, winning in a sport, a Stanley Cup, a game, finding your way, your mind, body, heart, all of it operated on muscle memory. You experienced it before, and your body reacted to the signals you gave it to do things like playing hockey, falling in love, giving away your heart. But something, an unexpected action that you hadn't done before, lingers under the surface, one your muscles had no memory of doing.

I did what I said I wouldn't do. I looked up and saw Ami pressed against the glass, her starry blue eyes on mine. We got caught for a moment, locked together, until I gave her a cocky nod.

I could hear the giggle she let out, well not really, the crowd was pretty f*cking loud, but I liked to think I heard it.

With the puck on my stick, I charged forward, hunched in position, keeping control and avoiding the defense. It was the critical moment when my concentration turned to commitment. I took off from the red line, taking my time as I swept right and then left and back right. Changing puck possession from side to side, I passed to Remy. Remy got it back to Leo, and then when I thought he'd take the shot, he passed it back to me. I used my stick handling speed to my advantage, like some kind of find the ball under the hat game. Sealy kept up, his eyes low on my movements, anticipating my move.

Their defense was strong, blocking, but I took the wrist shot and swept it under Sealy's leg to catch just the tip of the crossbar. It bounced off Sealy's pad and went in.

Lucky f*cking shot, but it went in.

The Blackhawks hadn't won a Cup since 1961, the second longest drought in NHL history. It felt good. I might have scored the goal, but I couldn't take credit for it all by myself. It was Remy who kept it in control, judging the right time to pass to Leo. It was Leo who waited until I found an opening. I might have been the one that scored, but it was the Chicago Blackhawks who won—together.

Since playing in the NHL, I'd never made a show of a goal because I didn't score that much. I wasn't out there to score. But hey, when you were the one that won the game with the winning goal in overtime, a strip tease was warranted in my mind. I didn't give a strip tease, but f*ck if I wasn't excited. I was shouting and jumping and pumping my fists, and then my team was all over me. I couldn't see anything besides my boys piling on me, all with the same exaggerated enthusiasm.

From the time you were a little boy, red faced, frozen hands, and a runny nose, you dreamed of hoisting that Cup, but you never thought that it would actually be you someday. The thing was, I knew it would be me someday.

Every team, every coach, and every player started out the season with the same goal in their head. They wanted that Stanley Cup, and they literally had no other interest in mind.

Those same coaches and players, as the season progressed and they're suddenly looking at a 22-36 ratio, they never lost sight of what it meant to hoist that Cup.