Page 38 of The Call-Up
I jump and slam my shoulder into the glass behind Las Vegas’s net in celebration the moment our goal horn blares. With that shot, I’ve made the score three to zero. Any fight that Vegas had left in them is gone. They’re done. It’s evident in the way their goalie is slamming his stick into the side of his net and the way their defensemen are hunched forward, supporting themselves with their sticks resting on their knees.
“Nice fucking shot!” Brandon says to me as he joins me by the glass and wraps me in a hug. I hold him back, squeezing him harder than is truly necessary right now. But he feels so damn good against me, I can’t help myself. If this is the only way I get to have him, then I’ll take it, even if I want more.
Unfortunately, we can’t stay like this forever. There’s still around five minutes left of this game. So we break apart to make our way to the bench. Once seated, I grab a squirt from the water bottle with my name on it, then offer one to Brandon. He opens his mouth wide and lets me squeeze some in.
I swallow when he does. Because goddamn. There are a lot of other things I’d like to do with his mouth.
I stare right at him.
“What?” he asks, all wide eyed.
“Nothing,” I say, laughing as I offer him another sip. He opens his mouth again.
I raise the bottle and tip my head as I oblige his request. Either he’s too innocent, or he’s playing dumb, pretending he has no idea the effect that move just had on me. I’m guessing it’s the former as his eyes are focused forward, paying close attention to the game.
Following his lead, I take my gaze back to the ice. Roysy has just leveled one of Las Vegas’s forwards in the neutral zone. Thecrowd erupts into cheers. Our hometown fans are really getting their money’s worth.
Even after the hit, Vegas still maintains possession of the puck, and their left winger is trying to get it into our zone. Clemmers has him hemmed up and he’s forced to pass it across the ice. It makes its way to their right winger, who attempts a shot on goal.
It’s a weak shot and Ivanov is able to glove it down easily, stopping play.
“Christianson!” Coach calls out. “Your line is in! Let’s close this out.”
“Got it, Coach,” I say as I climb over the boards. Behind me, Brandon and O’Shea follow, and we make our way to position to the face-off dot right of Ivanov’s net.
“Less than two minutes,” I say to Ivanov as I skate past him.
He narrows his eyes at me from underneath his mask. With a warning tone in his voice, he says, “Don’t.”
“I would never,” I say, grinning at him. “I know not to say the S word until it’s happened.”
Brandon lightly whacks me in the back of the head with his gloved hand. “Don’t just not say it. You can’t even think it. Remove all thoughts from that head of yours.”
Ivanov crouches down and nods his chin at Brandon. “Baby gets it.”
I roll my eyes. “Baby grew up with Ander ‘Shutout King’ Bouchard?—”
“Ryan!” Brandon, Ivanov, and now Danton, O’Shea and Clemmers all exclaim in unison.
“Oh, come on! I didn’t say it pertaining to Ivanov and this current game.”
Brandon skates up to me and looks at me seriously. His face is stern. His jaw is tight. His eyebrows are furrowed. “You do not say the S word during game play. Ever.”
My lips pull into a half smile, and I raise one eyebrow at him in challenge. “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do about it if I do?”
He narrows his eyes at me and quietly says, “Not only will I make sure you never get another pregame nap on the road, but I will keep you from getting them before home games as well.”
My eyes go wide. “Alright.” I put my hands up and mime zipping my lip. “Consider me silent on the subject.”
“I have no idea what Baby just said,” Danton says as he gets into position. “But I’ve never seen that particular look of panic sweep across Ryan’s face.”
One of the refs blows his whistle. “Are you all done chatting?” he asks. “Or would you prefer I drop the puck when you’re not ready?”
“We’re good,” Danton says. “Just enjoying the moment.”
“Save your enjoyment for the locker room,” the ref scolds. “There’s still a lot of game left to be played.”
Sure. A lot can happen in the final minute and a half of a hockey game. Upsets happen. Things fall apart. Mistakes can be made. Shutouts can be blown. But also, anyone who’s ever played hockey at an elite level can spot the signs of a team hanging on by a thread. Vegas is cooked. They know it. It’s in the way they’re hanging their heads. This team is ready for their season to be over. They probably have tee times at their favorite golf courses locked in for this weekend.
