Stand and Defend (Lakes Hockey Series Book 4)

JUNE

Stanley Cup Finals.

“Go, go, go!!” I scream from the home bench. My nerves are exploding, and I’m operating on a whole ’nother level today. We all are. Because we’re playing for the one and only Stonkley Clonk, as we’re calling it. The whole team is too superstitious to actually say the name until we’ve earned it.

It’s the oldest trophy in professional sports, going back all the way to 1893, where it’s been passed from team to team since. There are no reproductions, there is only one Stanley Cup. The one we all want our names on so we can live eternally in the Hall of Fame as champions.

We’ve had the most challenging season of all our careers, making it this far. Playoffs have always separated the men from the boys, and we’ve walked through hell to get here. We’ve been playing every other day for two months. Traveling and being away from our families. We’ve been wrestling with crippling fatigue, shot nerves, and injuries. All for a chance at greatness. We’ve worked our asses off. We are burned out and starving for it.

First period and we’re down by two. 0-2.

I shout to the team, trying to boost morale after the opponent’s second goal. “We’re here to win a trophy boys, but this is our ice and our fans, so have some fucking fun out there! We play our best when we’re happy, so I better see every one of you motherfuckers smiling!”

“Energy, boys! Energy!” the defense coach adds, clapping.

We are not underdogs, and we will not play like it. There’s a ton of hockey left. We’ve got more than a chance at winning. Every single one of us can put a puck in a net, we’ve been proving it all season.

I clap Lonan and Rhys on the back as we swap out the defense line. “Let’s get it, fellas!”

When it’s my shift, my skates hammer the ice as I get into position. A puck battle breaks out along the boards near Florida’s net. I’m able to flip it out to Rhys, who passes to Lonan. He takes the shot, and it sails through, right behind the goalie’s left glove. We clamor onto him, screaming. “Fuck yah, Burke!!” From the bench, I hear the coach yelling, “It starts with one, boys! It starts with one! Let’s go!”

1-2 at the first intermission.

In the locker room, we refocus. I sidle up next to Barrett and lean back, matching his posture. “How are you feeling?”

“Top of the world.”

“Yeah?”

“How could I not? My last professional game and we’re at the finals? I mean, how many players get a shot at winning their last game before retirement? It doesn’t get better than that. I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole career. We made it.”

“Wish we could have done it with Sully.”

“Yeah, it would be nice to have him with us tonight. You had big shoes to fill, and you succeeded, right out of the gate.”

“Well, you know what they say about big shoes . . .”

He chuckles and shakes his head.

I lean forward and knock my elbow into his knee. “Thanks for being my mentor this season.”

“Thanks for being my captain. Proud of what you’ve done for this team and for yourself.”

Shit, I’m gonna miss Conway. He holds his fist to me, and I tap it with mine. “If you make me bawl like a bitch, we’re gonna have problems.”

We get another short speech from Coach before we head back out. “Talk to the refs. Keep that line of communication open. Protect your brothers, protect the net. Dig deep, boys.”

About ten minutes in, the tension is high. We’re near our net, fighting like hell to get it away from there when their forward, Gilles, takes a shot on goal. I hold my breath. It bounces off the net post, and we all exhale. Dude’s done it twice this period, and I can’t help but give him shit about it.This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org: ©.

“Damn, Gilles, you smoke pole like a champ. You get that talent from your mom’s side or your dad’s?”

“At least I know what end of the ice to stay on. Want me to draw you a map to our net, asshole?”

Matty recovers the biscuit, and we chase it to their end.

He sends the puck to me, I pass behind me to Paek, who sends it to Burmeister, who dekes and returns it to me. Those two are stealthy as fuck. I get the shot and take it. And it clears the net.

2-2.

The foghorn sounds, and the arena erupts into madness. We’re tied. The guys crash into me. “Atta boy, Banksy!”

“Beautiful!”

It was a pretty stellar fucking pass between the guys, and Burmeister’s deke was glorious.

I skate by Gilles and grin. “Thanks for that map, bud.”

He gets in my face, skating toe to toe, and I smile big, waiting for him to do something.

The ref gets between us.

“Come on, Teller. Don’t start shit,” he warns.

“I’m not starting shit. All I said was thank you!” This official and I are on a first name basis. He’s a nice guy, a solid skater, and makes fair calls. I respect him, even if he’s had to escort me off the ice more than a handful of times.

“Well, don’t try to start shit.”

Gilles skates off, and I lift my shoulders and show my palms.

“I’m not trying to, Bob! You know me better than all these refs. Have I ever made trouble on the ice? I’m simply making friends, that’s all . . . Gilles is just pissed because he woke up and realized his face looks like that.”

Ref looks down, smiling. “Teller, I love you, but if you chirp the other players and create issues for me, I’m gonna run ya.”

“Aww, I love you too, Bob!” I smile and skate off. He really does love me.

Spirits are up. Lonan and Rhys are working defense, dekeing and checking like their lives depend on it, to keep it away from Strassburg in the net.

“Get it the fuck outta there!!” Teddy yells next to me on the bench.

“Heads up! Heads up!” I shout when they start losing control. Rhys is already ahead of me, gets it away, and sends it around the back of the net to Jonesy. Neither team can keep it on one end long enough, which means everybody is covering ground like a goddamn bag skate, accomplishing nothing. We made two shots on goal, each ending with a disappointed “Oh!” from the fans. Florida’s goalie is on his A game tonight.

The next intermission, I check my phone, and Jordan has sent me a couple text messages. The first few came in after my goal. The last one says, I love you, I’m proud of you, and I’ll see you on the ice.

I’m too nervous to make any assumptions about seeing her on the ice later, but Jordan prefers to say those things out loud to manifest them into real life. I’ll take all the help we can get. I text her I love her, and tuck my phone in my bag.

Making yourself drink water when your nerves are stretched thin and you feel as if you could vomit at any moment is no easy task, but we all force it down before we go back out there.

Third period. Tied game. Anything could happen. We all take our time to visualize, focus, and rub our lucky charms. Coach doesn’t say a word or interrupt us until it’s time to leave the tunnel. His speech is short and sweet: “Let’s give our fans a game they’ll never forget.”

Back on the bench, a few guys pick up the smelling salts to get their adrenaline kicks. We’re exhausted and running on fumes in our final period.

After the puck drop, it remains neck and neck for most of the period. We’re on pins and needles, if it weren’t for the fatigue, I don’t think any of us would sit on the bench right now. We’re all waiting to see what happens. I look up at the WAGs box, and Jordan blows me a kiss. I send one back. Barrett’s right, it’s hard not to look up at your woman.

During each of my shifts this period, Florida’s bench has been chirping like a goddamn choir loft, desperate to throw us off our game. A few guys, myself included, have joined in. We’re itching to throw a punch, but neither team is willing to risk a power play against the other. It’s too late in the game.

Jonesy’s knee bounces next to me as he fidgets. “Fuck, dude. Somebody hold my hand. I can’t take this pressure.” He groans, grabbing my glove. I let him. I’m barely holding it together myself. Unfortunately, it’s looking like we’re gonna end up in overtime.

Florida swaps out their players, and two of their best defensemen take the ice. Coach responds by swapping our offense line with Barrett, Jonesy, and me. We do a quick line swap and prepare for the worst. 02:13 left in the game.

“Let’s pull a fuckin’ Sully,” Jones says, jumping the boards.

A few seasons ago, Sully made the filthiest of filthy goals, and it’s forever gone down in team history as one of the greatest plays to come out of the Lakes. After that game, we made Sully recreate it so we could all get a chance at it. It was difficult to master, but we’d bust it out to fuck with our goaltenders during practice every once in a while. I grin and nod. What the hell, we’re probably hitting overtime anyway. If the opportunity presents itself, I’m down.

Their defense is all over us when we cross the blue line. They’ve got a big guy, and he checks me into the wall. Not the cleanest of hits, but I’ll let it by.

Jonesy gains possession and slips it to me behind him. In my peripheral, Barrett closes in on the net. I rush the goalie in the opposite direction and transition on a dime, skating in the opposite direction and flip the puck up in the air, pulling away from the net at the last second. Barrett plucks it out of midair with his stick and deflects it, throwing the puck into a different trajectory, and right into the net before it even hits the ice.

3-2.

Pure chaos.

The horn blows, and we pile onto Barrett, slapping his helmet and screaming. Adrenaline courses through us. A couple rubber ducks are tossed onto the ice, a tradition created by fans, as they prepare for the win. Our bench is going nuts. The arena is exploding with energy.

I flag my buddy the referee and point to the puck while Jonesy’s got his arms around me. Bob nods, snagging it up and dropping it off with Coach. Glancing up, Jordan is in the box jumping up and down with my parents, my sisters, and the other wives—her friends—by her side.

“Let’s finish this!”

Rhys, Lonan, Barrett, and I stay on the ice. Jonesy is swapped with Burmeister, who plays defense but we’re putting him in a forward position so we can better protect Kapucik, our goalie. All we need to do is defend our net for the next ninety seconds, and it’s ours.

They drop the puck, and Florida gives their all. We fight harder than ever to keep it away from our end as the clock runs out.

We know we’re almost there when another yellow rubber duck is chucked from the crowd onto the ice.

Then another.

And another.

Fans chant the countdown when there’s ten seconds left. More ducks. Our smiles grow. It’s hard to focus when we’re so close to a win, we can taste it—more than taste—we can lick, suck, and swallow it. This is happening.

The horn sounds, and I turn into a fucking bitch with tears streaming my face. We toss our sticks, gloves, helmets, everything into the air. The rest of the bench floods the ice, and we form a huge pile. Fans are screaming, crying, and pounding on the plexiglass. Rubber ducks soar through the floating confetti. Sully stands next to Coach, and I wave him out. We form a giant mob against the boards, screaming and yelling.

It’s absolutely surreal.

“The Stonkley—motherfucking—Clonk!” Jonesy hollers next to me.

“Stanley Cup!” O’Callahan corrects, now that we are in the clear to utter its name out loud.

“I’m still calling it the Stonkley!” he screams back. Half of us are crying. I’m sure half the Florida bench is crying too. I don’t fault them.

Our coaches, managers, and owner get on the ice with us—along with media reporters looking for sound bites. We give a replay of the winning goal and answer “How are you feeling?” about fifteen times while panting and dripping with sweat.

It’s a full-on celebration on the ice. Before long, they roll out the red carpet, and two men with white gloves bring out The Cup. They give a short speech and call my name up to take it for a victory lap. I nod for Barrett to join me. He takes one end as we both hoist it above our heads and make a lap around the arena. It’s surreal. It’s all led to this, and we saw it through.

“Hey, promise me something,” Barrett says.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t do anything sexual with it when it’s your day with the cup. I promised Arthur he could use it as a cereal bowl.”

I bark out a laugh. “I promise I won’t fuck Sir Stanley before I give it to you.”

As soon as I see Jordan at the player bench, I split from the group. She’s wiping away her happy tears next to Micky, Birdie, and Raleigh, and I scoop her up. She cups my face and kisses me between laughs.

“Camden! You won the Stanley Cup!”

That reminds me, Barrett’s shot was the winning goal. I drop her to her feet and kiss her cheek, then grab the winning puck off the bench. “Be right back.”

I skate to Barrett and thrust it into his chest. “This one is yours.” It practically sends him into tears, which gets me choked up. Damn, he sure is going out with a bang. “Your last puck, and it won the Stanley Cup.”

He throws his arms around me, and we hug it out before skating back to the bench to see everyone together. Rhys and Lonan are already there. Lonan kisses Ethan on top of his head and wraps an arm around Birdie, kissing her. Rhys cups his hands around Micky’s neck as they make out. Barrett picks up his son, Arthur, and kisses his wife, Raleigh, who’s holding their newborn daughter, Darby.

I smile at Jordan and sink my hands into her hair, crushing my lips to hers. She’s the love of my life. I can’t imagine celebrating this win without her.