Bronwyn

Getting out on the ice is hard. The buzz of adrenaline is fighting the sadness in my brain, and it’s making me sloppy. Plus, despite my assurances to everyone to the contrary, I’m not at 100 percent, physically. Maybe like 90 percent, but that’s not what you want for the gold medal game of the SIGs. For that, you should be 110 percent. At least.

But my hip pads are rubbing the bruise that’s bloomed the wrong way, and my skates feel off. Everything just . . . chafes. Especially the way Ash is looking at me. Or rather isn’t. He’s treating me precisely the way he always has, pre-sexing.

It hurts, and undermines my confidence. But it also makes me angry, and anger I can use. It’s heading toward the end of the second period, and we’re tied. Three to three, and the Canadians show no sign of letting up or giving in. They’re skating just as hard as they were at the start, and I have the ridiculous thought that none of them have just ended a relationship. Or rather, have had a relationship ended.

The bench is hard under my butt, and however awkward I feel out on the ice, I feel a hundred times more awkward off it. At least on it, I have to devote every ounce of myself to paying attention or we’re toast, and I’m not going to do that to my team. I’m grateful when I hear Ash’s voice, even though it pains me at the same time. “Perry, get ready to go in for Green.”

I nod so he knows I heard him and wait for the play to settle down so we can swap out. The puck is a whiz of black on the ice, the players a jumble of a little blue and a lot of white and red. Our shots are split pretty evenly, and everyone’s been fairly aggressive about trying to fire one into the goal. Not a whole lot of finesse, and I can predict what Ash—Coach—is going to say when we’re in the locker room at the end of this period. Slow it down, think it through. Yes, take the shots, but set them up, don’t just fire wildly. There’s no way you can make up in volume for lack of planning and execution. It’s annoyingly true.

Canada’s Bouchard gets a penalty for slashing, which she so deserves because she’s done it a few times already and this is the first time she’s gotten called on it. That’s my cue to swap out with Natalie, so I hop the half-wall dividing our bench from the ice, and she skates in.

With Bouchard in the sin bin, we’ve got a power play going on, and my fingers are itching in my gloves. I want that puck. Want to cradle it with my stick and then slap it right into their net. Put us ahead and keep us there by getting in the opposing team’s faces like whoa.

We’re in Canada’s end, playing keep-away with the puck, retrieving it bad shot after bad shot. Finally their goalie snatches a shot out of the air and we have to clear back toward our goal. It’s maddening that we’re not taking advantage of having the advantage of a player, but we can’t seem to get the damn puck in the net. When the buzzer for the period finally goes, I’m sweaty and frustrated, but I’ve finally found my rhythm. I am back in the game with my whole self, everything else melting away.

Ash

The girls are looking better. After the talk we had in the locker room, they’ve done as I’ve asked and slowed down. Managed to put the puck in the goal again. Canada’s coach seems to have given her team the same chat, and they also manage to score. The tie is making me crazy, because we’re only a few seconds out from overtime.

I have faith they can handle it, but would I ever rather have this over with. It’s doubling down on the stress and the adrenaline, and I’ve seen Bronwyn swipe at her nose a couple of times. She’s tired. And probably hurt. Which showed in the first period, but she got herself together and has been kicking some royal ass since then. Which I’m grateful for; if she hadn’t stepped up out of whatever mire I left her in, I would’ve blamed myself for the rest of my life. I already blame myself for making this crazy hard thing even harder on her, when I was supposed to be making it easier.

The buzzer goes and causes my heart to momentarily seize. Fuck. We’ve got an overtime, which is a whole other period play under gold medal round rules. Twenty goddamn minutes of trying our damnedest to keep Canada from scoring, because if they do, it’s all over. On the other hand, if we can score, it’s all over and the gold is ours. But I’m risk averse. Always have been, and while women’s hockey is faster, it also encourages caution in a way that the demolition derby of the men’s games doesn’t.

I don’t like it, but I think the strategy here is to do everything possible to keep them out of our net, only taking a shot when it’s almost guaranteed. Best case scenario, we score and win. Worst case scenario, they score and win. Less - than - ideal - but - still - not - the - worst scenario is no goals being scored during overtime, and going to a five-round shootout.

If we make it that far, I have a few girls in mind to take the shots. I don’t know whether to hope for that or not. Crapshoot. That’s what all this is. A goddamn crapshoot.

We’re evenly matched, and I can’t honestly say there’d be a wrong winner. Of course that doesn’t stop me from wanting that medal—for myself, for my girls, for my sport, for my country, for Bronwyn. The consolation’s not bad, either, but I don’t want second best. It’s time to make the case to the girls that I know how best to help them get it. Hopefully I’ve earned their trust and their faith and they’ll be willing to listen. Even Bronwyn, to whom I owe far more than good advice.

As I follow the girls down to the locker room, I put together my pep talk in my head, and try not to notice the way Bronwyn swipes a forearm across her nose.

Bronwyn

It’s the end of the overtime period, and I have been skating my ass off. I am so fucking tired, and sore, and though the high stakes are adding a float of fervor on top of my tall glass of exhaustion, it’s almost gone. Coach had told us to keep the puck out of our goal at all costs, and we’ve done that, but we’re all playing gingerly. I know why, but it’s frustrating.

If Brody were here, I know what he’d say. He’d say to storm the goal, take every shot possible, because they won’t see it coming. Not after so many minutes of playing it safe, but that’s not what Ash wants. He trusts us to get it done in a shootout. That sends a whole new level of anxiety pinging around my chest, though. Will he pick me? Do I want him to? When? And god, what would I do if I missed?

That’s when the buzzer sounds and my heart drops through my stomach onto the ice. Shit.

The team hustles up and surrounds Ash at the bench. It could be my imagination, because everything’s started looking too sharp and too bright, more intense than it does in real life, but Ash looks pale. Without my permission, my mind seeks a reason why. He’s been pacing a lot, both on the floor and on the second row of the bench—jumping down must’ve jarred his hip and it’s gotta hurt like a bitch. I suppose that’s not my concern anymore so I try to ignore the tugs at my heartstrings when I see him wince.

“All right, ladies. First, I want to say that I couldn’t be prouder of each and every single one of you. You’ve played hard, and you’ve played fairly, and come together as a team to do this absolutely phenomenal thing. I want you all to remember no matter what happens in the next few minutes, you’ve accomplished amazing things and your hearts should be full. Mine is.”

He looks around at us, our sweat-glistening faces, our hair that has got some serious frizzing going on, our eyes that are bright with competition, and yeah, some of us look downright bloodthirsty. It’s all plastered over months and years and lifetimes of work. Countless hours spent in freezing cold rinks, on early morning drives because our ice times were for shit or to competitions in other states.

Yes, we absolutely deserve to be satisfied, but I suspect he knows there are some of us who never will be. Which is part of what makes us such damn fine athletes. Always pushing, always aiming for better. Never settling, because there isn’t such a thing as good enough. He walks a delicate balance as a coach, trying to tell us both of those things are true. Like, Yes, you’ve reached the moon and that’s incredible, but can you see those stars? Kinda think you could reach those, too. Just a thought. But if the moon is what you have in you, I’m thrilled.

“Even though the women taking the shots will be doing so by themselves, you will not be alone. The wisdom and work of your entire team is behind you. Plus your teams back home, and all those little kids who come to your games, wear your jerseys, cheer your names, ask you to sign their sticks. You’ve all earned that, no matter who’s making these shots, because we all stand on the shoulders of greatness.”

They’re pretty words, and with his open earnest face, and those clear green eyes, I believe him. Want to hand him everything on a platter. Want to go home with him at the end of the night, take off his shoes and lie with him. Not going to happen. I’ve had enough of an emotional roller coaster to last a lifetime during the SIGs.

Then Ash is making eye contact with every single one of us, and I know when he gets to the end, he’s going to announce the players to take the shots. We might not even get through all five, but he’s going to pick them anyway. And then we’ll do our best to strategize given what we know about the strengths and weaknesses of Canada’s goalie, and the strengths and weaknesses of our own players.

“First shot, Stewart.” Her face splits in a broad grin, but she can’t be surprised. She’s scored two of our goals this game and seems to have a decent handle on what makes their goalie tick, and how she can get around her clockworks.

People hug and punch her, jostle her with affection and chant her name before Ash hushes us all. “Second shot, Martinez.”

Third and fourth pass and they’re good choices. I might’ve switched out Julie for Lisa, but maybe she’s his fifth. There’s always a method to Ash’s madness, but before I understand what it is it can sometimes look an awful lot like psychosis. I should know better.

Before he names the person to take the fifth shot, he looks at us all again and the air is thick with tension. Not just for our team facing this shootout, but also as individuals because that’s a lot of weight on one person’s shoulders. Who’s it going to fall on, possibly crush until she chokes? “We can do this, ladies. You can do this. And Perry, you’re taking the fifth shot.”

A combination of curses and celebratory words explode in my head like one of those confetti poppers. If I thought the world looked sharp before, even the dull edges of the goals look as though they could slice a person in half if they just skated toward one hard enough.

Me. He picked me. He believes in me. Even if he’s not interested in a romantic relationship, he thinks that as a player, I can handle this. It’s a fabulous but confusing compliment. Apparently I’m good enough to hand this to, but not good enough for his bed. That’s okay. I’m not here for sex, I’m here for a gold medal, and goddamn do I want it.

Ash

It’s agonizing. The tension, the pressure in the arena is like nothing I’ve ever felt before in my life, and I’m a hockey coach in Boston so that’s saying something. It’s not helping that I have a player on the other side. Luckily, St. Gelais isn’t going to be involved in the shootout at all. I don’t think I’d be able to contain my joy if she did something awesome, and the press doesn’t like it when you root for another team, even if you’ve got a damn good reason.

The place is downright electric, and that’s before anyone’s taken a single shot. Everything is buzzy and sharp and the strain is unbearable. How the girls are dealing with it, I don’t know. Especially our goalie and the players I picked to handle the shootout. As much as it’s a compliment, a vote of confidence in their abilities, it’s also a burden. Don’t think that didn’t factor in my decision along with the technical skills they have.

We’ve got the advantage of being the second team to shoot, and when Harris lets the first shot through, equal parts joy and ruin pulse through the arena. Same when Stewart gets her shot for us by with a triple deke. God that was pretty, and our bench goes nuts.

Then our apprehension sits like lead in our bellies as the second Canadian squares up to the goal and just makes a flat out slap shot that goes in right above Harris’s shoulder on her stick side. Shit.

There are drums pounding inside my skull, aside from the foot-stomping that’s happening throughout the place. I can’t help but sneak a peek at Bronwyn. She’s standing still at the end of the bench, stick clutched in her hand, and every ounce of her attention riveted, studying. She does well under pressure and has got a sweet understanding of how a shootout can differ from scoring in a regular game. It’s a different set of skills when it’s just you against the goalie. Easier in some ways, because you don’t have a bunch of other players to be looking out for, but if you’ve reached that point, there are a lot of eyes on you, the weight of expectations, and I trust her to handle it.

Martinez kills it, sending her shot right between the Canadian goalie’s pads, and then we’re back to where we started. Tension and strain and pressure are wrapping around my ribcage until I can barely breathe, getting tighter and tighter with each shot. Round three, the Canadian misses, but so does Lam. Fuck, maybe I should’ve put in Nguyen, she was my other choice. Too late now.

The sound in the arena is deafening, the lights blinding, and I want so badly to be shoring up Bronwyn with intimate and gentle encouragement, but I can’t. I leave the reassurance to her teammates who are talking to her, offering observations and suggestions to her and French in equal measure, which is what I should be doing. They’re both my players, they’re both my go-to’s under pressure. I believe in their ability to succeed equally. Wouldn’t have picked them if I didn’t.

After the fourth Canadian skater is holding her arms aloft in victory and the place goes crazy, the team smacks French on her helmet, on her pads, tells her she’s going to be golden. Golden. That’s what we could be if this works out in our favor. Gold medals for all. Even if I’ve fucked up with Bronwyn, I could at least have a hand in giving her that.

French skates out onto the ice, picks up the puck at the center line, and takes it toward the Canadian goal. I swear to god our entire bench holds our collective breath on her approach. The girl nails it with a backhand and we all go wild. Except Harris, who looks like she’s about to lose her lunch all over the ice. I don’t envy her, but she’s doing a fantastic job, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have defending our net.

The last Canadian player lines up, skates toward Harris at speed but then comes to an almost complete stop, does some fancy footwork to try to get her to move, but Harris isn’t falling for it, and catches up the shot with her glove. That’s fine, it’s fine, everything is fine.

If Bronwyn misses, we just do this again. No bigs. I can recycle some players for the shootout or maybe give Nguyen a shot, but I’m not going to start my contingency planning until I’ve given B my full and unadulterated support, because I believe in her. She can do this.

Much as they had with French, her teammates smack her around a little with their gloves, and it’s their way of saying they’ve got her, they think she’s tough enough to handle this, and go fucking get hers. What I wouldn’t give to hold her. But even if she weren’t angry at me, we couldn’t do that. I’d still have to stand here, sending psychic messages that I hope will make it into her head. You can do this. You are good enough, tough enough, intuitive enough, and if I had any player in the world, I would still choose you. Not because we’ve been sleeping together, but because you’ve earned it, you deserve it, and there is no one I have more faith in.

She slips over the boards and skates out to our side of the ice. Takes a second to collect herself, take a breath, and then she’s skating toward center ice where the puck is just waiting for her.

Come on, B. You can get it done, I know you can.

Approaching Canada’s goal, she takes her sweet-ass time, and I use the last bit of air in my lungs to huff a little laugh as I shake my head. Of course she does. No one’s going to hurry Bronwyn if she doesn’t want to be hurried. She makes use of every bit of her stick handling skills, passing the puck from side to side, making the goalie follow it like she’s watching a tennis match.

Not breathing, I feel like time is practically standing still. The air’s all been sucked out of the arena, and everyone’s got their eyes glued to my girl. Can’t blame them, she looks amazing. She’s not showing off, she’s trying to get this done in the best way she knows how. She’s not the strongest, she’s not the fastest, but the way she plays with that puck makes my heart beat hard. Damn, that is sexy.

She’s heading toward the left side of the net, and the goalie’s following her, taking her bait, as I watch, helpless. No, I’m helpless only in this second. I’ve helped her become a better player, gave her a warm body when she needed one, and encouraged her to take what she wants, what she needs.

Bronwyn’s getting awfully damn close, and a thrill of panic runs through me that she’s too late. She’s dribbling the puck and it’s so pretty, but this isn’t figure skating, where the artistry matters. Getting the puck in the net is what counts here. Which is when she lures the goalie even farther to the left, and then . . .

Holy fuck.

Of all the things she could’ve done, I did not see this coming, and neither does the goalie. The goalie’s on her knees, her pads spread to block the shot she knows is coming, that should be coming, because that’s what physics says. That’s what every game she’s ever played in, every opponent she’s ever played against, has taught her. But Bronwyn’s not just anyone.

Taking advantage of the goalie being stuck on the left side of the net, Bronwyn passes the puck between her skates, extends her arm to catch the puck with her stick as it zooms to the right, and then with a sweet little sweep puts the puck over the line and into the net, making it look so fucking easy.

She did it, she fucking did it, and it feels like every person in the arena goes ballistic. The noise, the vibration of people stomping in the stands, the flashing of the lights, and the feel of my team throwing themselves onto the ice like a herd of skate-wearing elephants. I love it, and take the high-fives and the handshakes without knowing who they’re from, and when I get a second of freedom, raise my hands in the air and then despite the pain that’ll ravage me tomorrow, get down almost on one knee and do an epic fist pump.

She did it. We did it. My girls are made of gold, and so is the woman I love.