“Alright, starting lineups. We’re going with Brock and Scott as the d-pair and we’ll go with our checking line to run them out.”

Coach was closing up our pre-Game Four meeting at the hotel conference room. We had a productive conversation two nights before, where I basically admitted I had been playing hurt all playoffs but it was not a pain that was impacting performance.

“Clearly,” was his response when I said that. I had won 13 out of our 15 wins this playoffs, I only had six losses. All things considered from how we started, I was in line for playoffs MVP. Brock had been scoring at an unseen pace for a defensemen in the UHL however, and he more than deserved it given how many games I had missed. And will be missing. I was down for the count it seemed. Unless things got dire. 

“How bad do you think you are?” That’s the question I spent about five minutes in pure silence contemplating. I could have lied. I could have said, I can go Game 5 no question. But after a series of flights that were going to be coming and going given that we had at least two more games left in our matchup, I don’t know if my knee could take the travel. That being said, it was the Finals. I wanted to be there if we managed to win it all, and I couldn’t bank on that happening at home in Game Five. 

“The travel is hell.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know. I think that’s my final answer. But I don’t think Game Five is in play.”

“Then you’re out the series. Unless we need a miracle and you’re able to stand.”

“Understood.”

It was not the answer I wanted, but it was the correct one. We still didn’t know what happened in Game Three to my knee, but if it was bad enough that I was sobbing on the floor of a hotel room in fucking Canada, it was bad enough to knock me out for the foreseeable future. 

Snapping back to the present, Coach announced Marek as our starter, “going forward,” and I swear I heard an audible gasp or two.

“Marksy tweaked something in Game Three. It was bad enough last night that a conversation was needed at around one in the morning. This is my decision and I stand by it. Now, limber up and get ready for tonight.”

I needed one more answer though.

“Hey, Coach?”

“What’s up Marksy?”

“Am I dressing tonight?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t think that’s smart, but I feel better than I did after Game Three. Maybe for Game Five I’m on the bench?”

“Could use your eyes. Bailed us out before.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t love you making my decisions for me, need you to know that. But I agree with this being the right call. You’re up in the presser tonight.”

“Understood.”

Walking back to Brock, I slowly started to relay all that information to him, Scott and Claude. We made our way back to our rooms to do final preparations before heading over to the arena in about an hour or so. For me, that meant just sitting around. I wasn’t even dressing as the backup tonight, I would be a total scratch and listed on the injury report with a “lower body injury.” I’m sure Riley was going to have a field day with this.

Right on cue, I felt my phone buzz and saw I had a text message from the ace reporter herself.

“What the fuck?” That’s all it said.

Quickly, I shot back a reply, “tweaked in Game Three. We have two competent backups. Off the record, I made the call.”

“Holy shit.”

“You cannot tweet that.”

“I wasn’t going to outside saying that you weren’t dressing. That’s what I wanted to confirm. But also, this is a friend text. What the fuck.”

“Can we talk about it when we get back to Oly City?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Guys need to prep for tonight.”

“Sure. Good luck.”

“Thx.”

Its hard balancing a deep friendship with professional obligations. Especially when any information you want to share with a friend to, I don’t know, vent about your life going awry is newsworthy for them and a career boon. I also did not want to hang around our main beat reporter in the press box while watching one of the most nerve-racking games I will be party to. Of course after what seemed like one of the most drama-free series’ we have one that is just imploding everything that we worked so hard on our season for. But that’s what the finals are about, no? Over 90 games come down to who can win four the quickest. Its not an ideal way to end a season, but it certainly has a flair for the dramatic no matter what.

“I don’t want to bother you ahead of tonight,” I said to Brock quietly when entering our room. 

“Rhea, there’s literally nothing you can do that would bother me.”

“Well, you have routines and shit.”

“Stop. What do you need?”

“A hug?”

Without missing a beat he enveloped me, and led me over to the bed. We had fallen back into a rhythm of basically never being apart when we were inside our inner sanctums. I didn’t realize just how touch starved I had been my whole life, and in this moment I needed nothing more than someone to be the strong one and just be there for me. 

Having that person in your life makes everything seem a little less stressful, and it was apparent that I was bottling a lot in as I was headed back to the press box for the first time since our series with Olympia. I immediately started sobbing and dry heaving because I just wanted to let out all my emotions. I did not care if someone heard me walking down the halls of this shitty hotel we were staying in, I needed to be vulnerable. I needed to fucking scream at the world for giving me the chance of a lifetime and then a fluke thing seemingly take it all away. I wanted to be on the ice tonight so fucking bad, and I knew that I could barely stand up after this. There was no way on earth I could play tonight, and I think I was crying because there was a part of me that realized that I likely wouldn’t be playing again for the rest of the series. I had to trust those around me to win, rather than seize the opportunity myself. I was in hell.

After what felt like two hours, Brock finally started rubbing my back as the sobs turned into quiet whimpers.

“I’m here Rhea.”

“Thank you,” I said sniffling. There really wasn’t much else that needed to be said. “I think two days ago was my last game this playoffs.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling me to take it easy.”

“Rhea, we’re two fucking wins away from a title. All of us in that room down there would play with a bloody limb lying on the ice.”

I turned around to face him and for the first time all day smiled. “Hypocrite.”

“So what?” He said kissing me on the forehead.

“I love that about you.”

“What? That you can win an argument with me?”

“No that you care so much about both me and winning.”

“You make it easy.”

“No I don’t.”

“You really do. You don’t give yourself enough credit. I don’t think we have this run if we didn’t fit together as well as we do. Being traded to New York was the greatest thing to ever happen to me.”

Oh, we were getting into feelings, feelings. There was so much I wanted to say to him. So much that I just wanted to pour out and let him know how much he had become my whole world. I couldn’t deny that I was falling in love with this man, even if I had only known him a few months. But, it wasn’t time to be rash. It wasn’t time to profess the full extent of my love. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if this got in his head at the worst possible time when we were so close to winning it all? What if I was more in love with him than he ever would be with me? What if I could never play hockey again? Would I be able to challenge him? Push him to be the best version of himself, like he so clearly wanted to do with me?

Looking deep in his eyes the only thing I could muster to say was “yeah.”

“We should get ready,” He said in a whisper, clearly hoping I would give him permission not to get up.

“Yeah.”

“Is that all you can say right now?”

“Yeah.”

Rolling his eyes, Brock moved away first. Foiled again, by myself this time. 

“I can’t wait to be back here cuddling with you after the game,” he said, closing the door to the bathroom to start getting ready.

“Me too. I think I love you,” I said no louder than a whisper.

---

There were a few years that the NBA adopted a two-three-two format for its finals, modeled after what baseball does for the World Series. The idea was that the team with home field advantage got Games One and Two, then Games Six and Seven, reducing the need for cross continental travel and sparing the players. 

I fucking wished the UHL would be rational and adopt such a format.

Brock and I did get that cuddle session following Game Four, but the mood was not great. We had lost quite handily, and the series was tied headed back to Oregon. 

Winning this game, at home, was definitely a priority, and the mood on the flight back reflected that tenseness. People were getting scared, especially with me being on the shelf.

I think I accepted that I was not going to play in Game Five, pretty quickly when I got home, but I still wanted to give my knee the night to see if it was possible. Thankfully, Jenna was not out when we got back and she was able to help me to my room to enjoy my day off lying in bed waiting. 

“So, are we going to talk about what happened?” Typical Jenna. 

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Your fucking leg.”

“Its sports, this shit happens.”

“Don’t, ‘this shit happens’ me!”

“Look, it was a bad pile up and my knee got jammed. It sucks. I’m really afraid my season might be done, but who knows. There is still at least two more games left.”

“Rhea…”

“It fucking hurts Jenna. But we’re still in this series.”

“I know. Sam was apoplectic when it happened.”

“Thats really nice. Look, I’m giving you two my Game 5 family tickets.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, call out of work. You two are going.”

“But, she has her dad’s tickets no? And I could use the money?”

“I want you two to be there for me. I want them to be used.”

“So let me guess your parents?”

“Bailed.”

“Of course.”

“So, I want them to be used. I don’t like there being empty seats in the arena.”

“Okay. I’ll tell Sam. I don’t think she was working, but she can tell the owner for me.”

“Good. We need all the support we can get.”

“I can’t believe I’m excited about going to a hockey game,” Jenna said while walking to sit next to me on my bed.

“You absolutely love it, you goof.”

“Like, I actually do. I know I joked about hating it in college, but there was a part of me that was genuinely, like, sad that you’d have this big thing in your life and I wasn’t a part of it. I know I was your world there, because lets face it you came out to me first for a reason, babe, but still it always felt like there was a part of you that was there you could always run away to and leave me behind if you had to.”

“Well, I did literally run across the country for it.”

“Yeah, but like who could blame you? I guess I finally have an appreciation for what makes a professional athlete.”

“I can’t believe it was fucking Riley Strauss of all people that got you this way.”

“Look.”

“I’ll never understand dropping all your walls for a pretty girl. My fatal flaw.”

“Says the girl that’s going to one hundred percent be following around her boyfriend wherever he goes.”

“Touche.”

We sat in silence for a beat after that. It was weird, the time we spent apart felt like the tiniest blip in our relationship, even if it probably was necessary for each of us. But, having Jenna back in my life genuinely remained one of the most important things to me. She was too much, too often, but I am eternally grateful for the pushes she gave me. And hearing her admit that she feels closer to me while actually embracing my world stirred all kind of emotions within me. 

Being a professional athlete is one of the most selfish things anyone can become. It not only demands sacrifice from yourself that no person on earth should have to bare, but it demands your entire orbit and world around you, do the same. No one becomes a professional athlete on their own, and no one who helps a professional athlete becomes their best self comes out with all of their selves attached. Its a fucking brutal profession, and its an even more brutal journey to get there. Knowing that I had one of the most important people in my orbit fully on board? That was better than even potentially winning this championship. 

“What’s up?” Jenna asked breaking the silence.

“I…” I paused making sure I got these words right. “I really just want us to win. Knowing that I went down like this right when they needed me most? That’s the type of mental block and athlete doesn’t always come back from.”

Before I could even finish that sentence she had her arms around me. 

“No matter what, you’re getting that shot next year. If only that you start hormones after. I need my best friend looking as hot as me.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I am too. Whatever happens this week is a wash, babe. You’ve finally got a path to reach your dreams and be your fullest self. Nearly everyone I know back in Vermont would fucking kill just to have that. Let alone whatever comes with it in your case.”

“What, you mean a body breaking down at age 35 and crippling anxiety?”

“Plus, New York Fashion Week.”

“I swear to god you’re incurable.”

“Don’t think I never saw you looking at those pictures of all those hot hockey men attending those Victoria’s Secret runways. I knew you were straight long before you did.”

“I’m going to collapse into ash so this conversation can finally end.”

Jenna then patted my thigh and got up. “Rest up goalie girl. You’ve got a game to back up tomorrow.”

“I swear you had no idea what icing was six months ago.”

“And I still don’t!”

---

The view from the ice was just as bad as it was going to be from the press box. That’s what I kept telling myself seeing goal after goal pile in one of the worst games our team has played all season. It may be the most pathetic performance I’ve ever been a part of in my entire hockey career going back to U8 mites. Thankfully I was on the bench.

We lost 7-1 and that one goal came with about three minutes to go when their backup was taunting us making save after save.

That meant that St. John was one game away from lifting the Cup and we had to fly all the way back to Atlantic Fucking Canada to possibly save our season.

“I want the injection.” I said matter of factly to Clara before we left the arena that night.

“I can’t in good conscience give it to you.”

“I want a fucking chance to play in Game 6. I don’t care what you think.” 

“Well I’m the one that signs off on this.”

“Well I’m going to the head trainer and Coach Mac and I’m going to beg. I’ll grovel. I’ll get down on my fucking knees. And I’m going to demand it and I’m going to say that if we want to save this season its going to be with me in between the pipes.”

“You can try!”

“And I fucking will,” I said slamming the door on the way out.

This was bad. I wasn’t thinking anymore. I don’t think anyone was. The locker room was fucking silent after this shellacking. I just knew no matter what I needed to be on the ice for Game 6. There was no way we were winning this without that, at least in my mind.

I hated that I was about to be the girl who ran to her boyfriend and cried about the situation, but I needed someone to understand that I was going to do whatever it took to move us over whatever hump was forming in our way. So, I stormed out of the arena like a petulant child, got in my car and drove as fast as I could to Brock’s.

There, I just collapsed in his arms and whimpered until I was sure that no tears were actually coming out.

“Are you okay?”

“Just…today sucked.”

“I know.”

“I’m not even trying to be like, it sucked for me having to watch it all go down when you were on the ice! You had to play through that.”

“Like I said, I know.”

“Sorry.”

“Rhea.”

“Sorry!”

“What did we say?”

“We’re not doing apologies.”

“Exactly.

Alright, it was now or never. I had to see if he was going to get mad and throw me out and we’d start this cycle of fighting all over again.

“Brock,” I said timidly.

“Yeah, Rhea?”

“I’m going to ask for a pain injection in St. John. I want to be able to play.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need help talking to Coach.”

I was stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. This was the man who I felt like was about to blow up our relationship because he thought I was pushing too hard and being reckless?

“I’m sorry what?”

“What?”

“You’re not upset? Or think I’m stupid?”

“Rhea, if the injury is that bad that you can’t walk after a pain injection then you probably going to the operating table anyway and one injection isn’t going to do anything more harmful. On the other chance, we have either 60 or 120 minutes left in our season. If you’re in net we probably win the last game of it.”

“That’s what I told Clara.”

“Well, she’s trying to protect you so obviously she told you to kick rocks.”

“How do people keep doing this?”

“What?”

“Nevermind. But yes, she did.”

“Look that’s her job. And you are doing yours. I already told you you’re not allowed to blame yourself for this. So, you’re a big girl if this is what you want to do. This is what we are going to do.”

I buried my head in the crook of his neck. “Thank you,” I murmured. This is where I needed to be until it was once again crunch time in 48 hours.

---

Twenty-seven minutes. That’s all it took for St. John to go up two goals and trigger Coach Mac to pull our goalie and send me in. I had one job: keep the game where it was so we could try and mount a comeback. It was now or never.

Limping into St. John that morning, both metaphorically and literally I immediately made my way to the arena from the airport, like the rest of our team. We’d check into the hotel after the game, either knowing we’d be flying back first thing having forced a Game 7 winner take all championship match, or ready to start our offseason and learn when getaway day was.

I immediately went to find Coach Mac and told him I wanted to speak to him in the training room. He grabbed the head trainer and Clara and it was time to see how the chips would fall. 

“I want an injection.”

“The fuck’s this about Marksy?”

“We have to win tonight. I don’t know if Marek is going to get it done. I want a pain injection so that I can come off the bench tonight if need be.”

“The fuck you are? The coach? Making my decisions for me.”

“I’m just stepping up, coach.”

He glared at me, I mean really fucking glared at me. Right into the core of my being. How dare a player tell the coach what to do.

“If you think you can help us then I’ll allow it. But you’re not coming in unless we’re down two goals.”

“I think that’s fair.”

“Its more than god damn fair its my fucking decision. You don’t get a say. The fact we’re even having this conversation is only because we have our backs against the fucking wall to far that we are sinking into the bricks. Now I’ve got a fucking game to prepare for.”

He stormed out just as frustrated as he was after Game 5. Clara was giving me more than a scowl, as the head trainer started to prepare the pain injection. She scoffed and left as I was left to my fate.

Having never done one of these before, let me tell you they hurt like a fucking bitch. It hurt more than the pileup that put me out in this series. What the fuck was I thinking?

But once that pain cleared, I was able to jump. Actually jump off the ground. I’m sure this was going to fuck my knee up worse, but oh my god this was a miracle. I could push off side to side! I could play goal! I was cured! 

“This will wear off in about 12 hours. Be careful, the comedown is going to fucking hurt.” 

“Thanks. Yeah, I’ve got it.”

I skipped out of the trainer’s room and right into Clara who was clearly waiting for me.

“I want you to know I don’t approve.”

“I know, you’ve told me.”

“BUT,” she said stopping me. “I understand. I don’t like it, but coach was right about if we are down two you’re the only thing that’s giving us a chance at coming back. So I’m forgetting about this just hoping we get a chance to win this in Olympic City. I am ashamed of my own thinking, but wouldn’t be the first time someone pulled this shit in a pivotal Game 6.”

Instead of responding I just hugged Clara.

“Thank you for everything. I mean it.”

She nodded. And we just stayed there for a minute.

“Now if you get in this game, fucking win it alright?”

“I don’t plan on anything else happening.”

The mood before the game was absolutely worse than tense. There was doubt. Clearly, it was there among everyone after what happened the game before. Instead of a pregame captain’s speech our coach came in to address everyone.

“I’m sure you all don’t want the season to end tonight,” Coach said rather calmly. “Well do your fucking jobs and make sure it doesn’t.”

He then turned to walk out and slammed the door harder than I’ve heard in my life. We were all stunned. He Herb Brooks’d us. Hopefully it was exactly what we needed.

St. John scored first, because of course they did. But thankfully we were able to tie it by the end of the first period. There wasn’t really anything to say in the locker room after that, the tension was permeating our area like a fog over a riverbed in the summer. 

“You all know what to do, so let’s do it,” our captain said at some half-hearted attempt to keep composure and control. 

It did not work. We were not in control. This game was getting away from us. St. John scored two minutes into the second period, and now we were officially in my nightmare territory. The worst case scenario could happen. We lose by one goal and I never get in this game, and we do not get a championship. It made me want to puke.

Thankfully, or distressingly depending on who you asked, St. John scored again five minutes later. Coach immediately signaled for Marek to come to the bench, I had wondered what he told our starter about my situation, and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t fuck this up,” was all that coach said to me. “Don’t make me regret this,” he added as he helped shove me over the boards.

That first save after coming in was probably the hardest save I made in my career. I was so nervous I was going to throw up in my mask, or my mouth and then choke on it and die on the ice. But, once that first save was done, I was able to forget about my knee and get into a rhythm. I could do this. And maybe, just maybe, we could too.

There’s an adage in life that says “its better to be lucky than good,” and boy did that come true for us in this one. We ended the period only down 3-2 thanks to a fourth liner somehow banking in a goal off our opponents skates getting his first ever playoff goal completely unassisted with about two minutes to go. Maybe the sheer absurdity of it all hit us, but we felt more relaxed going into the locker room. All things considered they hadn’t been playing that well. We were out shooting them, likely outhitting them and we had stayed out of the box. We just gave up a few early and it seemed that could be enough to allow St. John to just collapse in on themselves and hold on for a championship.

For the last 20 minutes, we just needed to go all out. At the risk of sounding like a fucking cliche, we kind of had to empty the tank. Just throw everything we had at them. Hopefully they would crack. If they didn’t, well we could hold our heads up high at how close we got, and if they did? Well good fucking luck trying to take what’s ours in Olympic City.

There are a lot of little moments that add up over the course of a season, showing just how fickle winning a championship really is. If the puck bounces a certain way in February maybe the organization doesn’t pull the trigger on the necessary rebuilding trades and we never get the team makeup that gets us this far. Maybe an offsides in the final game of the season ends all momentum and we ended up missing the playoffs by a single point. Its hard not to dwell on these moments after they happen and ask yourself “what if?” Its only human.

We would not be asking ourselves those questions in the third period. What if came true. From three minutes in our shots were getting past their goalie. We scored four goals in five shots from minute three to minute ten of that period. A 3-2 deficit became a 6-3 lead faster than any of us could have imagined. Brock potted two of those goals, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier in my life. A four point game for my man in the biggest game of his young career? If I wasn’t the one earning the win and not letting a single shot past me in a do or die game I’d say it was the greatest thing I had ever witnessed. Alas, an empty net goal with about five minutes to go when St. John were desperate to reclaim what should have been their coronation meant we won 7-3. On the road. In an elimination game. With a goalie with a bum knee. You could not write a better script before a championship series Game 7.

---

I was driving to the arena when I got the phone call.

It was the day of Game 7. Everything was on the line for our season, and I needed to be locked in completely ready to go. 

“Hey Jamie! We’re in town again, do you think we could have those friends and family tickets?”

I’m sorry, what?  My parents were calling me, again, asking for tickets, again, after they had failed to show up for two straight games to start the series. Who did they think they were? Well, actually that was par for the course for those two,.

“Uh, no. Sorry. Someone else got them.”

“Ah, drat. Was worried about that. Do you think you could ask them to give it up. I know how big a deal this is.”

“Were you guys even at the first two games?”

“What kind of question is that, son? Of course we were.” 

I visibly retched at the word son. If only they knew. But thankfully, they did not.

“Ticket intern said no one picked them up.”

“Bullshit.”

“Well, sorry my friend Sam asked ages ago. Didn’t think you wanted them. Kind of important for her.”

“Who the fuck is this Sam person?”

“She works at the local bar, we’ve gotten close this year.”

“She a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Then why the fuck does she have these tickets.”

I could hear mom in the background audibly cursing. I made out that she said something about a buyer. Bingo. There it fucking was. They were trying to sell the tickets and make quick cash. 

“Sorry, I’m at the arena. I’m sure you can get one or two off the street. It would be great if you were there.”

I immediately hung up as I parked in my spot and began hyperventilating. My fucking parents were showing up at the biggest series of my fucking career and using friends and family benefits to profit. Without thinking I ran out the car door and inside, not even pausing to say hi to anyone as I made a beeline for the bathroom. In the first open stall I saw I deposited my lunch, vomiting and dry heaving until I couldn’t anymore.

After gathering myself off the floor, I made my way to the sink when I heard someone else retching. A minute later, our captain emerged from his stall wiping something off his mouth. We just silently nodded to each other as he slinked out. At least I was not the only one losing my lunch over this game.

Game prep was a fucking blur. I didn’t want to even think about what was about to go down tonight, I just wanted my parents banned from the Pacific Northwest. Brock sensed something was up and tried to talk to me before our final pregame ritual of the season, but I was quickly approached by Brady.

“Hey, man. Just wanted to let you know your parents called me about friends and fam tix. They said you gave yours away? Makes sense. Anyway, I gave them mine because my parents ain’t flying in for this. Hope that’s okay!”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I mumbled. God fucking dammit, they had moved on from swindling me to swindling my teammates. 

I had disassociated completely at this time. Someone else was piloting the ship. I was fucking lost. 

“Hey, look at me,” Brock grabbed my shoulder in the locker room. “Whatever’s going on? We’ll face it after. Together. I promise.”

That jarred me out of the spiral of negative thoughts. “My..my parents,” I managed to squeak out.

“Fuck them. Seriously. They don’t matter.”

I nodded.

“And I mean it. I’m here for you. We’re going to take some deep breaths before cap speaks.”

So we did. And honestly, I needed it. The world seemed to slow down for a second, and the cacophony of the locker room faded away as it was just me and my boyfriend sharing a moment. No one would have thought twice about it, everyone was in their own little worlds as we were ready to head out into Game . But for me? It was everything I ever needed, and then some.

“Good. Welcome back.”

I hugged him. Not in the tender way that we normally do, but in that bro hug make a fist and put it to his back type way so no one would bat an eyelash.

“Nice cover, goalie girl,” he said as he whispered into my ear.

How on earth did I get this lucky?

Next thing I knew we were back in the locker room for the second period intermission. The score was 1-1. Both teams were playing tight, disciplined hockey. I think I had made about 13 saves at this point. No one was really taking that risk, and both teams were content to let the game play out hoping that one opening would be enough to win it. I really did not want this game to go to overtime, but it looked like that’s where we were headed. 

Neither team committed a penalty in the third period. That’s how clean this game was becoming. Each team managed about seven shots that third period, meaning there was less than a shot a minute for the whole twenty minute duration. Only 14 chances made by either team hoping to win this trophy after a grueling two months of hockey. We were in hell.

People often joke that there are secret script writers in sports. That the events that happen on the field of play are so unbelievable someone, somewhere in a windowless room had to conceive what is happening for it to make any sort of sense. The truth of the matter is, all this shit is random. There is no rhyme or reason to how anything happens, it just plays out with no counterfactual. If someone was really pulling the strings behind all this entertainment, what they could conceive on the page would pale in comparison to what happens in real life.

Seventy-three seconds. That’s all it took for our season to end. The first forty of those were spent in our own zone without a shot on goal happening. Then there was a quick line change, and we got out the matchup we wanted and quickly moved the puck to their zone. This took just over twenty seconds. After we dumped the puck in and were chasing it, someone on St. Johns managed to clear the puck, but instead of getting it to one of his teammates he sent it all the way down the ice. So a minute and ten seconds had gone by and there was a face-off back in their zone. We opted not to change our line since it had been a short shift, and because of the icing rule St. Johns could not get a better matchup on the ice. 

Immediately after the face-off, the puck went out to one of our defensemen who whipped a shot right at their goalie. It was not a great shot, but hey why not try? Someone must have been screening them, or the puck deflected off someone’s leg or stick because next thing we knew the puck was in the back of the net. Just like that. It was all over. We had won. The Olympics City Mariners were UHL Champions.

It did not matter who the scorer would give credit for the goal, we were piling on top of our guy who fired that shot. Just one dog pile of every single Mariner on the ice, coaches and trainers on the bench, and literally anyone that could make their way there to join. It was pure bliss. I had finally understood what it meant to win the final game of the season.