Page 134 of Slap Shot Surprise
He laughed. “Pucks in deep.”
The game was a nail-biter, fast-paced, physical and ferocious, both teams fighting to stay alive. Anna and Iclutched each other in fear, screamed with excitement, and jumped up and down when our team scored. Joe was having a great game—he’d scored in the first period on a gorgeous breakaway, in which he skated so fast and so beautifully, I couldn’t breathe. During the second period, he had an assist, but a few reckless penalties resulted in power plays that allowed Denver to score two goals, tying it up. Tension was mounting. The crowd was wild.
My back was killing me, so occasionally I had to sit down. “Are you okay?” Anna kept asking me.
“I’m good. Just need a rest.”
But it wasn’t long before I was back on my feet. By the third period, the game was tied at three. The goalies were making phenomenal saves. Players were killing penalties with incredible defensive skill. Both teams were out for blood. My brothers were texting me frantic messages about what Chicago needed to do, like I could just bang on the glass and give the coaches the Buckley brothers’ advice.
Xander
They need to shoot more! You can’t score if you don’t shoot!
Austin
They’re taking too many penalties! They need to stay disciplined!
Dash
They should keep the shifts shorter so their legs are fresh!
Devlin
They’re not picking up the loose pucks! They need to focus!
While it was a little scary being close enough to hearthe players cursing and shouting, I did like being able to see the focus on Joe’s expression, see the sweat on his face, feel the incredible drive and dedication he had to his sport. He was so fucking good—no matter what happened on the scoreboard tonight, I was so damn proud of him for giving so much of himself to this game. Occasionally, I’d catch him looking over at me, and I always smiled. He didn’t smile back, but I could tell he was reassured I was okay.
Which was why I didn’t let on that I thought I might be having some contractions. I wasn’t positive, and they weren’t horrible, so I didn’t even say anything to Anna as the game went into overtime.
But a few minutes in, she noticed me breathing hard, kind of hunched over. “Mabel!”
“I’m fine,” I said, fighting through the ache. “It will go away in a minute.”
“What the hell! Are you having labor pains?”
“I don’t know,” I panted. “Maybe.”
“Well, let’s go! We have to tell Joe!” And she would have banged on the glass if I hadn’t stopped her.
“No!” I said, grabbing her arm. “No. I’m okay. Let’s just give it the first overtime at least. Maybe someone will score.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you nuts?”
“No, I’m just a really big fan.” I laughed, feeling relief as the pain eased. “But first labors take forever anyway. And it’s not like my water broke.”
“Oh my God. Okay, but you have to tell me if you get another contraction. You do not want to have the baby here.”
“I’ll tell you,” I said, watching the teams head onto the ice again.
As soon as the puck dropped, I forgot all about laborpains, riveted by the action on the other side of the glass. But five minutes later, my body was gripped again by pain. Determined to hide it, I took quick, short breaths and pretended I was fine. Anna was preoccupied because Dag was on a breakaway, and she grabbed my arm, digging her fingers into my skin. The pressure was a good distraction.
We watched with rising hopes as he skated closer to the net and took the shot, letting out our breath when their goalie caught the puck in his glove. The entire arena moaned with disappointment. My insides twisted and raveled as play moved back down toward the Chicago goal. I was about to tell Anna I thought maybe I should call the doctor when she grabbed my arm again. “Oh my God,” she said. “Look.”
I watched in disbelief as a pass from one of our defensemen was intercepted by a Denver forward. But it hopped over his stick before he could control it, and suddenly Joe was there to scoop it up, easily corralling the loose puck. I couldn’t even breathe as he breezed past center-ice and skated fast up the wing, no one able to catch him. And then at the blue line, he raised his stick and unleashed a slap shot that no one saw coming—especially not the Denver goalie. It flew right past him and hit the back of the net, the crowd roaring as the sirens and air horns went off.
Anna and I screamed as loud as the rest of the fans, and tears blurred my vision as the players all poured onto the ice and piled on top of Joe. But the pain across my lower back and the tightness in my belly refused to be ignored any longer. “Anna,” I said, “I think I need to go to the hospital.”
“Let’s go,” she said, taking my arm to help me walk.
