Page 139 of Offside Angle

A few guys nod. Across from me, Elias is sitting forward with his forearms braced on his thighs, breathing hard from his last shift and watching Damian like there’s going to be a quiz afterward.

Considering who he married, there probably will be.

Damian lets us enjoy the praise for approximately three seconds.

Then his expression changes.

“But if any one of you looks at that scoreboard and decides a one-goal lead in the Finals is comfortable, I will personally correct that misunderstanding.”

There it is.

I take another drink of water and settle in.

“You give Vanguard room in the third, they’ll use it. You start chasing another goal instead of protecting the puck, they’ll punish you for it. You float through one shift because you think somebody else has this handled, and I promise you’ll have an excellent view of the rest of the period from right here.”

Nobody seems particularly eager to test whether he means it.

He does.

Damian always means it.

“We stay on them,” he continues, looking from one side of the room to the other. “Make the smart play before you make the pretty one. Keep bodies out of Shane’s sightline, take care of the puck, and make them earn every fucking inch they get in our zone. They want this game back? Fine. Make them drag it out of your hands.”

That gets a different reaction.

Elias straightens. Cole gives one sharp nod beside him, and somewhere farther down the room somebody taps a stick against the rubber floor.

Damian’s eyes narrow. “Clear?”

“Clear, Coach,” comes back from around the room.

He holds us there another moment before finally nodding.

“Good. Get some water, get your breathing under control, and then go finish what you started.”

The room comes back to life as soon as he turns away. Tape starts ripping again, somebody asks for a fresh bottle, Shane and Viktor are already talking quietly about something Vanguard has been doing around the crease, and Elias leans toward Cole like he physically cannot survive an intermission without discussing the next faceoff.

I sink back against my stall and tip my water bottle up, feeling Damian’s praise and threat working exactly the way he intended.

That’s pretty much how he loves us.

He tells us we’re doing well, threatens our lives if we stop doing well, then sends us back onto the ice convinced we’d better prove him right.

The third period gives us exactly what we need.

We close out Game 5 with a 4–2 win, and the building is still shaking when we finally make our way off the ice. Gloves tap against shoulders on the way toward the tunnel, sticks lift toward the crowd, and everybody looks exhausted in that deeply satisfying way that only comes after winning something hard.

We’re up 3–2 in the series now, with home-ice advantage back where it belongs, and the relief hitting me is almost as strong as the urge to get the next one over with already.

Apparently winning only buys you about thirty seconds before your brain starts demanding another one.

The media is waiting for us in the tunnel, microphones already out and cameras pointed our way. I’m barely clear of the ice when one of the reporters steps into my path.

“Mats, you’ve looked a lot calmer the last couple of games,” she says, holding the microphone toward me. “Has something changed off the ice?”

My eyes betray me before my brain gets involved. They go straight to Santi. He’s farther down the hallway near the locker-room entrance with his camera hanging at his side, watching the interviews instead of shooting for once. Our eyes meet for less than a second, but it’s enough for his eyebrow to lift slightly.

He knows.