Page 67 of Keeping Kyle

“Please welcome back to Arsenal ice, three former players: Kyle Pressgrove, Nicolas Helson, and Troy Feldman. It’s great to have you back, but don’t look for any mercy tonight.”

Damn, that was nice. The crowd got extra noisy, and that meant even more.

Sawyer Herron, my left wing, skated alongside as I finished up a half lap, waving at people who waved at me from the stands. “I wonder if they’ll be so happy if you score on them tonight.”

I laughed. “Hopefully, we’ll find out.”

I headed to the bench and looked up at the scoreboard to check the time, and the logo for Austin’s company was gone. In its place was something called Digital Interface Innovation. What had happened? Had he pulled out? I thought sponsorships went for the year.

The game was hard-fought and much closer than anticipated. Clearly Billington was a good pick up for the Arsenal. Defense seemed transformed. At the same time, Phoenix played stronger because the three of us had integrated into the team so quickly. This game was far different than when Detroit was in Phoenix before my trade.

A couple of times, the Arsenal got breakaways, and I had to hold back from cheering. It was a reflex to cheer for orange. Luckily, we shut those down.

We ended up down to what I hated—an overtime shootout. Coach planned to have me shoot second. I didn’t want to do that here.

Detroit put Kennedy up for their second shooter, and I liked that even less.

Both first-round shooters made it.

Kennedy’s shot got covered by our goalie.

I’d make a dent in this standoff if I scored.

I skated out to the center, and the crowd that had cheered me nearly three hours ago let loose a torrent of boos. I stole a look over to Herron and shrugged. He shrugged back and gave me thumbs up.

I looked down the ice at Lindsay. He’d had a good game—both goalies had.

As I stood at the dot and before the ref had the puck set, Lindsay raised his stick to me. I raised mine back. We knew each other’s tricks so well, and I hadn’t been gone long enough for either of us to forget or to have new moves.

The ref checked us both and blew his whistle.

The crowd got to their feet and booed louder. Of course they wanted me to fail. I’d feel the same way about an opposing shooter, but it stung nonetheless.

Skating down the ice, I focused on Lindsay while he studied me. This had to be just right. I came in and kept straight on target and made a last minute shift to my left. Lindsay didn’t fall for that.

I expected he wouldn’t.

What he left me though was a gap between his leg pad and blocker. I shot and the puck sailed in and hit the back of the net.

The red light and buzzer went off, setting off even more crowd noise.

As I turned at the boards to go back to the bench, I looked to Lindsay, and we traded head nods.

Crenshaw was up next for Detroit, and he made his goal, leaving us tied at two-two.

Owen took our third shot, and he wrapped up the game. Relief flooded me—not only did we win, but the shootout wasn’t going to drag on.

As we cleared the ice, I was held back to be one of the three stars of the game, another surreal experience. I’d had this honor quite a few times as an Arsenal player, but to get it on the opposite side felt like I betrayed a friend.

The fans were appreciative even though I’d helped seal the loss for Detroit. I raised my stick in thanks.

David waited for me as I exited the ice. “Hey, man, Austin’s here to see you.”

What? Why?

“Um. Okay. Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll come over. Thanks for letting me know.”

I wanted to send Austin away, but it wasn’t something I could ask David to do. It wouldn’t be fair. I couldn’t ignore him and just leave him waiting either because that would be a dick move. I owed him better anyway. He’d messaged a couple of times, and I’d said I was busy with Mom. I didn’t know what to say so I defaulted to saying nothing.