Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 24. Chapter 24

Noah

The first shift told me everything I needed to know. Jackson carried the puck through the neutral zone. Before he'd reached the red line, one Montreal forward stepped towards him. Nothing unusual. The second one cheated in his direction too. Not enough to leave his assignment. Just enough. Jackson chipped the puck deep anyway. Their defense recovered it comfortably.

Interesting.

The next shift it was my turn. I circled low through our zone, picked up speed and hit the middle with the puck. A winger attached himself to me almost immediately. Not chasing. Shadowing. When I crossed the blue line he crossed it too, every stride, every turn. Like he'd been told not to let me out of his sight.

I dumped the puck in. Coach changed lines. I skated back to the bench. Jackson sat down beside me.

"You seeing it?" he asked quietly.

I nodded. "They're splitting us."

"Yep."

Neither of us sounded particularly surprised. Montreal hadn't won two playoff rounds by accident. Of course they'd watched the video. Of course they'd noticed what everyone else had. Most teams tried to stop one of us. Montreal had realized that wasn't enough. They weren't trying to shut down Jackson. They weren't trying to shut down me. They were trying to keep us from playing together.

I almost admired it. If our positions had been reversed... It's exactly what I'd have tried.

---

The first period ended scoreless. Both teams disappeared down the tunnels. I dropped onto the bench in the dressing room and reached for my water bottle while one of the televisions mounted in the corner carried the intermission coverage. The analysts had already found the story. One replay showed Jackson crossing the blue line with two defenders leaning towards him. Another froze on me dragging a checking forward halfway across the offensive zone. The former defenseman on the panel pointed at the screen with his telestrator.

"Philadelphia's offense runs through these two."

He circled Jackson. Then me.

"Montreal isn't trying to beat them individually." Another line appeared between us. "They're trying to cut this connection."

His co-host nodded. "Take away their chemistry, and you take away Philadelphia's offense."

Coach Hayes muted the television before anyone could answer.

He looked around the room. "They're not wrong."

Nobody spoke.

Coach uncapped his marker. "So let's make them wrong."

He drew three quick arrows across the whiteboard. The room leaned in.

Whatever adjustment he'd seen...

I had a feeling Montreal wasn't going to enjoy it.

------------

Coach's adjustment worked. Sort of. For the next ten minutes, hockey became an exercise in controlled frustration. Every clean entry vanished half a second before it developed. Jackson carried the puck, and a second defender drifted into his lane before he reached the blue line. I tried carrying it instead. A checking forward stayed attached to me like he'd signed a lease. Passing lanes disappeared.

Every time I thought I saw Jackson open, a stick appeared. Every time he looked for me, another sweater arrived first.

Coach shortened the shifts.

"Keep them fresh," he said.

He wasn't wrong. Montreal wanted us thinking. Thinking made you hesitate. Hesitation got you pinned along the boards. I came back to the bench after another broken entry, breathing harder than I cared to admit.

Jackson sat down beside me.

"They're overplaying it," he said quietly.

"I know."

"They're waiting for us to force it."

I nodded. Because we would have. A month ago, I probably would've spent the rest of the night trying to squeeze impossible passes through impossible gaps just to prove we could.

Now... I wasn't interested in proving anything.

Coach leaned over the boards.

"They're chasing ghosts."

I looked up.

He tapped the whiteboard clipped beside him.

"Use it."

---

The next shift started the same way. I carried through the neutral zone. The checking forward immediately matched my speed. Jackson crossed the far side. Two defenders cheated toward him.

Perfect.

Instead of trying to thread the puck across the ice, I turned back toward the middle. The defender following me came too. So did one of theirs.

Jackson kept skating, dragging both of his shadows with him.

Nobody had noticed Ben. He arrived late through the middle exactly the way Coach had drawn it.

I slipped him the puck. One touch. Shot. Goal. The red light flashed.

Ben threw both arms into the air before pointing straight at our bench.

Coach Hayes didn't celebrate. He simply folded his arms. Then, almost despite himself, a grin appeared.

As Ben reached us after the line change, he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

"You know," he said between breaths, "I don't mind being forgotten."

Jackson laughed.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do."

---

Montreal didn't change. Why would they? Their plan was working exactly as designed. Jackson rarely touched the puck without company. Neither did I.

Only now... We'd stopped trying to find each other.

Instead, we found everyone else. A defenseman pinched into space Jackson had created. Our weak-side winger suddenly had room to breathe.

Ben found himself alone twice more because three Royales were busy worrying about two Bobcats.

Funny thing about chemistry. Most people assumed it meant always passing to the same player. Sometimes it meant knowing your presence alone changed the shape of the ice.

Montreal had separated us. They'd also opened the rest of the ice.

By the time the third period reached its final five minutes, the game had settled into the sort of tension where every mistake felt permanent.

One goal was probably all it would take.

The Seguin center hummed with nervous energy. Every completed pass drew applause. Every turnover a roar. We changed on the fly.

Coach pointed. "Go."

I vaulted over the boards with Jackson beside me. Our defenseman recovered the puck behind our net and wheeled away from the forecheck. We broke together. Nothing unusual.

Jackson took the right lane. I drifted through the middle. The puck moved to our defenseman again as we crossed the red line.

Montreal reacted immediately. Two defenders stepped toward Jackson before he'd even reached the blue line. The checking forward attached to me as faithfully as he had all night. There it was again.

The same picture. The same coverage. The same assumption.

I glanced across the ice. Jackson looked at me, barely half a second. Not long enough to communicate anything.

We didn't need to. We were simply recognising the same opportunity.

Jackson accelerated toward the near post. Both defenders followed.

Of course they did.

He'd spent sixty minutes convincing them he was the danger. I didn't follow him. Instead I curled into the space they'd abandoned.

It opened almost lazily, like a door nobody realized they'd left unlocked.

Our defenseman saw it. The pass arrived flat onto my tape. One touch.

I didn't even look.

Ben was already charging through the far circle. The puck slid across the slot. His stick met it cleanly.

Crack.

The net rippled. For perhaps half a heartbeat, the Seguin center forgot how to make noise.

Then, high above the stunned silence, came the unmistakable cheers of the traveling Bobcats supporters scattered around the arena.

I didn't even see the puck settle. Ben was already skating toward us with both arms raised. He pointed at Jackson. Then at me.

Then shook his head. "You two are exhausting."

Jackson laughed before I could. "You're welcome."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"You scored."

"I know." Ben grinned. "That's the annoying part."

"You're acting weird today."

"That's fucking rude," Ben retorted. "I'm weird every day."

The officials herded us back toward center ice while Montreal's coach barked instructions from behind the bench.

As we lined up for the faceoff, I caught Jackson's eye again. Neither of us smiled, not really. There would be time for that later.

Right now there were still three minutes to survive, but I could see the same thought reflected in his expression.

Montreal had spent the entire night trying to keep us apart.

In the end... They'd brought us together exactly where we needed to be.

--------

The dressing room was louder than usual. Playoff wins tended to do that.

Someone had found a speaker. Someone else was insisting Ben's goal had been exactly where he'd meant to shoot it.

Ben accepted congratulations with the solemn dignity of a man accepting an award for accidental excellence. "I created the opportunity."

"You were standing still," Eddie said.

"I was standing strategically."

Coach Hayes walked past. "Keep telling yourself that."

Laughter rolled through the room.

I smiled despite myself.

---

Later, after the interviews were finished and the noise had begun to fade, I sat for a moment with my skates untied.

The reporters had all wanted the same story. The winning goal. Ben's finish. Our chemistry. Whether we'd expected Montreal to defend us that aggressively.

I'd answered every question. Now I realized I couldn't remember exactly what I'd said.

What I remembered instead was the play before the goal. Jackson pulling two defenders toward the crease. Me drifting into the space they'd left.

The pass from our defenseman, across the slot. Ben scoring. Simple hockey.

Months ago, I'd have watched that replay looking for my assist.

Or wondering whether I could have scored myself.

Earlier in the season, that would have mattered.

Goals.

Points.

Ice time.

The headlines the next morning.

Proof that I could carry the line.

Tonight...

I honestly couldn't remember whether I'd been credited with an assist.

I wasn't even curious.

I finished untying my skates and looked across the room.

Jackson was laughing at something Aleksander had said, completely unaware I was watching him.

A few months ago, I'd wanted to be the player everyone depended on.

Somewhere along the way, that stopped mattering quite so much.

I looked across the room at Jackson.

Maybe the better question was simpler.

How could I make his job easier?

I already knew the answer.

We both got better when I did.