Page 100 of Tough Call

But then we’d be together again, and it was all a hundred percent worth it.

“It’s going to be a few very long weeks,” he’d told me before the playoffs had started, “but once they’re over, we have the entire summer together.”

I’d held on to that. It had been a salve after a heartbreaking, season-ending loss, and it had me restless with excitement in my seat tonight.

Come on, Edmonton. Beat New York so I can have my boyfriend back tonight!

Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn’t—they were currently down 2-1 in the second period, after all—but at least I got to watch Connor in his element. That was never, ever going to get old.

The League had been watching both of us closely all season long. The scrutiny had been unnerving but expected, and I was glad we were near the end of it now.

The press—especially the sensationalist clickbait sites—had been even worse. More than once this season, they’d tried to conjure up controversy about our relationship, and at least two of them had tried to segue from that into why queer men shouldn’t be in the League at all. A small but vocal faction of fans had eagerly gotten onboard with that.

Fortunately, it had all turned out to be noise. One of them tried to insist that Connor had thrown a critical game between Ottawa and Los Angeles, denying L.A. two points that would have had them on Vancouver’s heels in the standings. The powers that be had reviewed every second of that game. Every whistle Connor had blown (or not blown). Every call he’d made (or not made). The whole damn League had seemed to be on the edge of their seats, waiting for the verdict that the cleanest ref in the NAL was actually manipulating the standings for his boyfriend.

In the end, the League had concluded that bad officiating had in fact cost L.A. that game, but none of the calls had come from Connor. In one instance, an L.A. player had gone to the box for roughing after he’d shoved an Ottawa skater… seconds after that skater had brazenly high-sticked him in the face in what should’ve been a double minor. Connor had been in no position to see what happened, never mind call a penalty, but the whole thing had gone down right in front of the other ref. Now that ref was the one under investigation because of his suspiciously lopsided calls.

In another instance, a reporter accused Connor of sabotaging the four-game series between Seattle and Calgary. According to that reporter, Connor made sure Seattle swept Calgary by keeping a revolving door on Calgary’s penalty box while Seattle got away with everything.

Once again, it was reviewed by the League, because God forbid they just ignore the obvious noise. And once again, Connor was completely exonerated.

“There was no evidence of biased officiating,” a League representative had told a packed press conference. “Our experts concluded that the reason for the excessive number of penalties called against Calgary was Calgary committing an excessive number of penalties. This matter is now closed.”

So here was Connor, officiating the playoffs without issue, and he’d been doing a damn good job of it. In fact, he was the only official this postseason who hadn’t been shown to be making biased or piss-poor calls.

I was happy to see him out there shining, still wearing black and white after we’d put both of our careers on the line a year ago. It had paid off. He was still here. I was still signed. My professional tryout with Vancouver had turned into a two-year contract. I’d put up twenty-three goals and fifty-seven points, and the club was already making noise about extending me. Maybe this off season, maybe after I went into free agency next year, but they’d made it very clear they were interested in keeping me in a Vancouver sweater.

I was in heaven.

Vancouver had come close to the playoffs—closer than this club had been in the last several years. It had come down to two games—our final regular season game, and Houston’s. We were playing a division rival who was near the bottom of the conference, while Houston was up against Edmonton, who was favored to win the conference, if not the Cup. If we won and Houston lost in regulation, we’d snatch the second wild card spot out of their hands.

After a grind of a game, we’d won and earned those two precious points. For a few shining moments, that second wild card spot was ours.

Then Houston tied up their game with a highlight reel buzzer beater through a dense screen beneath our goalie’s pad., and our hopes had been dashed. The instant regulation ended, so did our season, because whether Houston won or lost (they ultimately lost), they only needed a single point to squeeze us out of the spot.

It was heartbreaking, but we’d made it that far. Next season, we were ready to fight our way back to that level and win this time.

With me out of the postseason, Connor had been kept active as an official for the playoffs. That was a consolation prize for me; I’d hated the idea of his season being cut short, and anyway, it meant I could watch him in his element.

A whistle blew, jolting me back into the present. One of New York’s players started screaming at Connor and flailing his arms. Johnson—he was bigger than Connor and known to scrap with just about anyone, but Connor glared right at him and gestured toward the box. The idiot kept right on yapping even as one of his alternate captains took his arm and pulled him across the ice.

For the second time this period, Connor skated up to the red line and clicked on his microphone. “New York, seventy-two. Two-minute minor for slashing. Two-minute minor for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

Just like earlier, I barely heard the last part over the crowd, with the New York fans booing and Edmonton cheering this time.

There’d been a lot of penalties tonight. The refs were usually pretty light on penalties during the playoffs. Some of us joked that the postseason meant prison rules—anything short of brazen attempted murder was allowed.

There were lines, though, and Connor didn’t give two shits about anything but doing his job. The penalties were getting called because the players were committing penalties. Simple as that. He also wasn’t one to dish out unsportsmanlike penalties unless someone really crossed a line, so the guy must’ve said something egregious.

Now Edmonton had a five-on-three power play. New York’s biggest weakest all season long? Their penalty kill.

This could get interesting.

It did, and quickly. Edmonton went into the power play down by one. Fourteen seconds into the five-on-three, the score was 2-2. With just five seconds left on five-on-four, they scored again: 3-2 with four minutes remaining in the third period.

The vibe in the crowd was electric. I don’t think anyone’s ass was in a seat for those final minutes. We were all on our feet, shouting, trying not to lose our damn minds as the clock steadily ticked down. New York tried for an empty net, and three shots in a row very, very nearly went in.

Then Edmonton’s rookie defenseman swiped the puck away and sent it flying down the ice… straight into the back of the empty net.