Page 195 of Pucking Them
They crash him into the boards, dominating Philippe. Their elbows jostle.
Is Philippe about to lose the puck?
But then, Philippe twists with a speed that takes the larger men by surprise, ducking under another hit by Wilder. The puck is glued to his stick.
The cheeky asshole glances over his shoulder and winks at D’Angelo.
“He really is a mini-you.” I laugh.
“I’ll need a word with Ty.” D’Angelo is trying to sound stern, but I can hear both his amusement and pride. “I didn’t know that he was training the newbies to be cocky assholes like me. But Philippe has outplayed Wilder and made him look like he’s too slow to be the Golden Child of the NHL. So, I approve.”
Suddenly, I let out a shocked breath, as Philippe threads a pass that is just as brilliant as anything I’ve seen by D’Angelo to Shay, who has worked his way into the perfect position.
He is completely unchecked.
“Yes, yes, yes…” I breathe.
Shay catches the pass mid-stride and with a flick of his wrist releases the puck spinning at the net.
The goalie desperately dives but can’t touch it.
When the puck hits the back of the net, the arena explodes with cheers.
The goal horn blasts, sharp and triumphant. A split second later, and the final buzzer signals the end of the game.
And the end of the Conference Finals.
We did it.
We won.
Joy and excitement surge through me.
The Bay Rebels have made history.
Shay has.
The crowd leap to their feet, waving their Bay Rebels scarves and banners, chanting and hugging each other.
D’Angelo and Eden hug me too.
Coach leans on the boards, yelling praise for once.
Cody and Noah are bouncing around each other like a pair of excitable kittens.
Shay freezes like he can’t believe he scored.
The rest of the team, however, are throwing off their helmets and gloves, grabbing onto each other and whooping. Atlas skates to Philippe, who is standing to the side shyly, and pulls him into a quick one-armed hug.
I wave at Shay. “What a shot! We’re going to the finals!”
It appears to snap Shay out of his shock. He smiles over at me. Then he raises his stick at all three of us like he’s dedicating not only the winning shot but every shot he’s ever made to us, his new family.
“We did it.” D’Angelo is shaking. “We fucking did it. We’ve reached the fucking Stanley Cup Final.”
He’s dazed.
We all are. This is fucking huge.
