Page 147 of Wild Card 13

For the first few minutes, I played like every person in the building had paid admission to watch me specifically.

Which meant I played like an idiot. A talented one, but still.

On my second shift, I saw a pass that did not fully exist yet and tried to make it anyway. Most nights, my hands could turn almost into enough. Most nights, I could force a lane open because I believed in it harder than the guy defending me believed he could close it.

Eden Prairie was not most nights. Their defenseman read me half a second early, got his stick into the seam, and sent Carlson the other way with open ice in front of him.

I chased. I almost caught him. He went forehand, backhand, roof.

The horn sounded.

Eden Prairie led 1–0.

Because of me.

I coasted toward our bench while the black-and-red student section screamed my name in the worst possible rhythm. “Burns! Burns! Burns!”

I kept my face blank because that was what you did when you screwed up in front of thousands of people and three men whose opinions could follow you out of the building. You did not show them the hit landed. You did not look toward the stands. You did not look toward your father.

Coach opened the bench door. I stepped in. Nobody spoke for three seconds. Then Mase leaned close and muttered, “Bold strategy. Giving them hope early.”

I shot him a look.

He bumped his shoulder into mine. “Get it back.”

Exactly what I needed.

I did get it back.

Not with some perfect revenge shift where I turned the whole game around because that would have been too easy, and Eden Prairie did not give us easy. They made us earn every inch of ice. They finished checks. They clogged lanes. They baited me after whistles, chirped my family, chirped Lucy, chirped my mistakes, and spent half the first period trying to drag me into the box.

Once, along the boards, Carlson smiled through his cage and asked if my whole family had shown up to watch me choke.

For one red second, I wanted to put him through the glass hard enough to make the scout in the Fargo jacket write that down too.

Then Coach’s voice cut across the ice. One word. A warning.

When I got back to the bench, Coach did not look at me. “They want you in the box.”

“I know.”

Late in the first, Eden Prairie took a holding penalty against Simon. He came back to the bench red-faced and furious with himself, muttering that he was playing like ass.

Mase opened his mouth.

I cut him off with one look, then leaned around him and tapped Simon’s shin pad. “You drew a penalty.”

“Because I almost fell.”

“He held you because you beat him outside,” I said. “Do it again.”

On the power play, Eden Prairie overloaded toward me because they thought I wanted the shot. Usually, they would be right. I loved the shot. I loved when a goalie knew I was going to release it and still could not stop it.

But the lane through the seam opened exactly where Coach said it would if I waited half a second longer than instinct wanted me to.

So I waited. Then I snapped the puck through to Mase at the back door.

Tie game.