Page 34 of Dangle

Players scrambled.

Bodies hit the boards.

Two minutes in, the scoreboard still showed 3-3.

Shots on goal climbed.

Then a breakaway.

Twelve minutes on the clock.

The puck bounced between the second line. Right to center to left to right to left. They toyed with the defenders.

“There’s the lane.”

“But does he see it?”

The puck flew.

The arena fell silent.

Over the goalie’s shoulder, dropping behind the goalie’s back.

The horn sounded.

The lights flashed.

And the arena deflated as Vancouver’s second line celebrated.

“Fuck!”

“And this is why you don’t talk about shit.”

“So, it’s like a no-hitter?” I asked.

No one responded. Instead, the focus remained locked on the ice below us. For eight long minutes, Nashville grinded.

Then suddenly, Gavin swooped in, scooping up a loose puck. He flew like the hounds of hell were on his ass, nipping at hisheels. He faked left. Lindqvist, the Sound’s big Swedish goalie, followed and…

The horn sounded.

“And with under five minutes left in the third, Samuelson ties us back up!”

Gavin danced his way around the net. The team swarmed him, crushing him against the boards.

“Holy smokes! What a goal!”

“Lindqvist never saw it coming.”

“Oh, he saw it. He just fell for the fake.”

Priest, Bauer, and Cam took turns screaming out the open window. Next to them, Trey yelled just as loudly. His face lit up like the night sky on the Fourth of July and the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza had a baby.

“You finally realizing how much better my sport is than yours?” Ewen asked.

“Ask me that after we’ve watched an NFL game with the playoffs on the line from the owner’s suite,” I said.

Ewen laughed, wrapped his arm around my neck and kissed my temple. “Asshole.”