CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LIAM
It’s go time at the Gangneung Hockey Centre. This is it. The final.
I’ve barely heard from Viktoriya after she met me at the medical center this morning. It seems she might have got her own revenge on Bogdan given the panda eyes he’s sporting and the strip across his nose. It’s a fucking improvement if you ask me.
Following that, she’s been locked down in training. Even her cell’s coming up as disconnected.
Of course, I don’t expect her to be here tonight, but I still can’t help but feel slightly disappointed by her absence as I look around the stadium.
There’s a smattering of Russian support, but there’s even more for us given Russian’s ties with North Korea. The crowd is behind us. I don’t want to let them down.
And I’m ready. I’m ready to take down Bogdan and his merry band of ass bandits once and for all, send them right back to Russki land broken and defeated.
The ice feels good under my feet. My knee? Not so much. I grit my teeth together and zone out the pain, use and channel it into aggression.
Bogdan skates backwards past me. “How’s the knee, Yankee?”
“About as good as that silver medals going to feel hanging around that abomination you call a neck.”
He nods slowly, continuing to grin. “What do they say in America? Ah, yes. ‘Your funeral.’”
Paul skates to a stop beside me. “You want me to stick it to him, take the pressure off?”
I’m grinning myself. “No. Tonight, Bogdan’s all mine.”
*
Five minutes in and it’s clear the Russians aren’t going down easily. Their defense is hardcore, but we manage to push the first goal through without too much trouble.
I skate back into position scanning the stands. Still no sign of Viktoriya.
One of the Russians checks me hard into the glass, most of the force of the blow concentrated on my knee. I go down in agony, breathing hard.
The Russian is carded and sent off, Bogdan waving from the end of the rink, laughing.
So he wants to play dirty.
Oh, I can do dirty.
Conscious now of Bogdan’s focus on my knee, I keep it well-guarded, instructing the rest of the boys to open up on the loose sticking. It draws a foul or two, but it’s enough to let the Russians know we’re playing their game.
Still, they manage to claw back, enough to level out the score come halftime.
Paul collapses beside on the bench, removing his helmet. “It’s a fucking war zone out there.”
I take his shoulder. “And we’ve been through too many wars to count. We’ve got this.”
My knee flares with pain again. It’s going to be a problem in the second half, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
Back into it and I see a Russian defender in a classic bait and switch, the rest of the team drawing our defense away so he can drive his stick hard into my knee.
It works.
I go down again.
This time I’m not sure if I can get up.
I slam my fist down into the ice.
It’s fucking over.
I hear someone shouting from the stands, a voice I’ve come to recognize so well.
I get up, the pain forgotten as I see Viktoriya standing there in the middle of the aisle. Her hands are cupped around her mouth. She’s diplomatically shouting only “Go!’, but I know who she’s cheering for.
With a wink in her direction, I’m back on my feet and into the game, the crowd rising up around me. There’s ten minutes to go. I want Bogdan to feel every one of them.
But thirty seconds to go and we’re tied. If we don’t score again, this thing’s going to go into sudden death, and Russia hasn’t lost a single shoot-out yet. It would be the death of us.
Paul exchanges a glance with me. He knows it too.
The clock is back on. I collect the puck off Paul and power for the Russian goalie, but their defense is heavy. It takes every trick I know to weave through them.
I keep an eye on the clock.
Fifteen seconds.
Ten.
We’re running out of time.
I clear the last defender, but Bogdan skates in front of the goalie, his brooding mass all that stands between me and glory. I look around, but everyone else is tied up.
I’m on my own.
It’s him and me.
“Not today, asshole,” I whisper.
I increase my speed until I’m barreling towards Bogdan, the crowd electric.
Five seconds.
I have to shoot and I have to do it now.
Bogdan braces for impact, but at the last second I feign left and glance right, flicking the puck right between his legs as the goalie is caught off guard.
The buzzer goes off and I don’t need to look to know we’ve won. The deafening roar is enough.
Bogdan curses in Russian, taking off his helmet and hammering it down against the ice.
I can’t wipe the smile off my face as Paul collides into me, other team members following suit until we’re nothing but a giant pile of bodies on the ice.
It’s through the intertwined legs of my teammates I see her, Viktoriya, smiling widest of all.