Shootout (Northbrook Hockey Elite Book 6)

by Sophia Summers

  He laughed out loud. These guys were great. Dice had sent one where Janae was looking up into Trane’s face, and he liked it because she seemed into him. Her smile was large and natural.

  I don’t know. I’m stuck in Chicago playing Jax, aren’t I?

  You ready to get hit by my puck?

  Yep. Cause it’s certainly not going in the box.

  The guys razzed him and Jax, and everyone wished them luck. Most of the others had a night off.

  And then Rocco texted. Text Janae.

  Trane’s grin grew. That was a great idea. Ok.

  The guys responded with all kinds of eye of the tiger GIFs which made him laugh even harder. So he sent back Rocky Balboa running up the steps to the art museum in Philadelphia, laughing to himself.

  He pulled up Janae’s contact. She’d taken a selfie with his phone. He took a minute to admire her awesome curls. In the picture, one rebellious strand was hanging just outside of her line of sight and he wanted to smooth it down and watch it spring back into place. He sent her a text. Hey.

  She responded right away. Oh hi! How’s it going? You’re in Chicago, right?

  Wow, she was a talkative texter. Yep. Going great. You?

  So good. The dance is coming along, and I went out with the girls last night. We got smoothies. Um. I’m gonna need more food than that, but I respect the diet. And then spray tans. Not sure how my pale Irish skin is gonna feel about this new look, but…when in Detroit…

  Oh yeah, how’d that go? They were decent ladies, a little rough sometimes. He wondered how she fit in.

  Fine. I got a few questions about us hanging out after the game.

  You and me?

  Yep.

  He tapped his thumbs, not sure how to respond to that. It was no secret Lily was into him. She’d asked him out herself when he hadn’t taken any of her hints to heart. But he’d said no. He wasn’t interested in dating any of the ice girls. Or he hadn’t been until he met Janae. But he had no idea where Janae was going with this conversation. Texting was hard for him.

  She sent a laughing emoji. Your silence speaks volumes.

  He sent back a laughing emoji and then hesitated. He wanted to ask her out again, to set up dinner the moment he stepped back into Detroit. Was it too soon? He didn’t care. Want to go out again?

  Yes.

  He grinned. I’ll pick you up Saturday at 3.

  Don’t you fly in then?

  Yes

  Well, okay. I’m free whenever so if that’s what you want, let’s go for it… See you then.

  Trane didn’t like dating games. He hadn’t stopped thinking about Janae since their night out together, and he wanted her to know it. He’d get her on the way home from the airport, because that’s about as long as he wanted to wait to see her again.

  His smile filled his face, and his cheeks hurt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much.

  Then he tossed his phone on the bed so he could pack up his duffle for the game.

  The Flyers were going to be tough to beat. They would likely win the Stanley. They knew it. Everyone knew it. And their desperation for that Cup might rule the day on the ice. But Trane wasn’t letting in any pucks. That’s just how things were. Best record or no, they still had to get by him tonight.

  An eerie feeling shivered through him. And what if his dad showed up?

  Well, for one, he was going to look at the man. Stare him down. His dad wouldn’t be able to sneak up and surprise Trane like he had the other night.

  But would he be in Chicago? Trane slung the duffle up on his shoulder, sick of thinking about the man. His dad knew how to get in Trane’s head. And why was the old man even trying?

  Well, he wasn’t going to affect Trane’s ability to play.

  His phone dinged. It was a text from Janae.

  I’m watching the game tonight. Me and my popcorn on the couch.

  The stress from worrying about his dad showing up fizzled, and he smiled. Again. Thank you.

  You got this.

  He pocketed the phone. You got this. Somehow, he knew he did, just because she said he did.

  The arena was all decked out in playoff colors. Chicago felt like his hometown as much as Detroit, but the arena was all Flyers. The Comets were contenders for the playoffs. But the Flyers were a shoe in. They were picked to win the whole thing. And from the looks of it, their fans knew it, and they were out for blood.

  But Trane always loved an underdog. And he knew the Comets had a chance—a small chance, but a chance. He was proud to be that team tonight. He’d fight for their spot.

  He headed to the arena early. He knew it would just be him, their ice girls setting up, and the Zamboni making its rounds on the ice…and maybe the coach. Trane loved the arena most right before a game. And he wanted to center his thoughts and focus on his job.

  Plus—and no one knew this—he might want to have a conversation or two with his goal posts. They had a job to do too. He knew it might sound crazy to any non-goalie, but the posts had saved him a time or two, and he needed them tonight. Talking through things pre-game helped him re-center more than any other thing. As he walked down the hall he wondered if Jax was around.

  He went down some stairs to the player floors in the Flyers’ arena. When he entered a long hallway, one of the Flyers players was with a girl. Trane looked away, but then a small noise from her had him looking closer.

  She was stiff, and one of her fists was clenched at her side. She looked tense. The player all but hid her up against the wall, but Trane decided to get a closer look.

  Boulder. Trane didn’t like that Flyers hot head.

  He didn’t recognize the girl. But as soon as he was close enough to see she was not happy with her situation, Boulder growled without turning. “Just keep walking.”

  “I don’t think I will.”

  Boulder turned. “Diesel.” His gaze looked away and then narrowed when he looked up into Trane’s face. “I said, keep walking.”

  Trane looked around him at the girl. She wouldn’t meet his eyes but looked white as a sheet. “Hey, I heard the girls talking. They must be looking for you.”

  “Oh, thanks.” She mumbled and all but ran away.

  Boulder turned to Trane, fury lining his mouth and eyes. “What do you think you’re doing man? This ain’t your business.”

  “I think it is.” He shrugged, but he stood his ground. If he had to come to fists with the man’s temper, he would. “She didn’t want to be there.”

  “And who made you the moral police around here?”

  He shrugged. “You best leave her alone. Go out with the ones who want to be with you.”

  “Dude, I said no one cares what you think.”

  Had he? He didn’t care what he’d said. “Just a couple words to the right people and there will be others watching you. Back off the girls who don’t want you there.” He stepped closer, his eyes showing his sincerity.

  “What’s the matter with you dude? Just step away. This ain’t none of your business!” He stood taller, almost in Trane’s face.

  Then a familiar voice stood beside him—Jax—and Boulder stepped down. “You up in my friend’s face?”

  “He’s interfering where he don’t belong.”

  “Now, I find that hard to believe. If Trane here thought you needed a talking to, then believe me, you needed it.”

  Boulder looked away and then shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Trane figured Jax would be reporting the player to his coach no matter what. He looked like trouble about to brew.

  Boulder scooted away from them.

  Trane called out, “See you on the ice.”

  “You will. You can count on it. Me and every other Flyer, and we are going to send you home without your teeth.”

  Trane waved at him as he walked away. “Yeah, sure you just keep talking, and walking.”

  Then he bro-hugged Jax. “Good to see you, man.”

  “You too! We on for dinner?”


  “Of course. Bring Meg. I’d love to see her.”

  “You got it. And I’m picking the place.”

  “Your town, your pick.” They turned and walked together toward the locker rooms.

  Jax adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “Is Coach coming to the game?”

  “I don’t know. We could invite him to dinner too.”

  “Good idea. I wonder how he’s doing. Do you know? That announcement about his health a while back was concerning.”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t talk about it. I stop in sometimes, but he won’t say anything more.”

  “I hope he comes.”

  “We’ll know if he does. He’ll be right on the glass by the penalty boxes.”

  “So we can get a whole earful if we end up in there.”

  Trane chuckled. “You know we will anyway. I can hear his voice anywhere.”

  “True. And he won’t be able to sit still. Maybe that’s why he isn’t here every night.”

  “Too much stress.”

  They knocked knuckles and separated to prepare for the game.

  Trane hurried to get into his pads and then made his way out onto the ice. The arena was starting to fill. He scanned the crowds, and then he searched the area right behind his goal. No sign of his dad. He let some of the air out in a great tension-relieving exhale.

  Focus.

  He weaved in and out in front of his goal for a moment and then stood in the center. All the guys gathered around.

  “Gentleman. We have a game to win. Nothing gets by. I’ll be fast, and you be constant.” He rested a gloved hand on each one, and then he turned to do a warm up lap before it was time to go down to the locker room.

  As he skated around, he wondered what it would be like to have a girl in the stands. Janae. She’d never be in the stands. She’d be in back, ready to come out with her shovel. But he knew she was there at every home game. That was nice, and maybe she’d be watching. He nodded to himself and then skated off the ice.

  The game was close. The Flyers were out for blood. Trane frowned more than once as players were injured. The penalty boxes were full. The Comets were out a defender, and Trane watched the puck like a lion does its prey. No way that thing was getting past him. Three times, Patterson had slammed the black biscuit at Trane, and he’d blocked all three. Patterson looked angrier every time. A dangerous desperation flashed through his eyes. This next effort was going to be tough.

  Patterson stole the puck down at the Flyers’ goal and raced toward Trane. He outskated the remaining defender and barreled at Trane. And he didn’t stop. Patterson rammed into him, forcing him back against the back side of his goal and slamming the puck with him. But Trane blocked it, sending it out to Conway who raced back down the ice. Trane felt his back take the hit. His head snapped back, his upper body following while his legs were stuck in the goal. He righted himself and shoved Patterson back and out of his box, but not before his whole body felt like it was going to bend in half.

  Coach’s voice was only barely audible. “You okay Diesel?”

  The world spun, but Trane nodded, patted his helmet with a glove, blinked ten times, and the world cleared. He waved off Coach’s worries and turned to watch the game.

  But Coach called a time out.

  Chapter 8

  Janae cringed when Trane was shoved back against his goal. “What’s the matter with you?” She stood and screamed at the Flyers player, even though no one could hear her, least of all the players in Chicago on her television screen.

  Wow, Trane did not look good. Did he wobble a little bit before waving off his coach? The sportscasters were talking a mile a minute about the guy, Patterson, and how Trane had blocked everything that came his way. They replayed the moment, focusing on the actual puck, and watching Trane deflect it right before he got checked. Then a slow motion of his back slamming against the bar, his neck snapping back, and then falling forward while his arms shoved Patterson away. The man fell backward away from Trane and onto the ice. Wow, Trane was strong. No one messed with the Diesel and got away with it. She smiled. But she studied him. And then the screen went to commercial.

  She moaned in frustration. When she picked up her phone, she knew there was no one to call. She didn’t know Trane well enough to know if there might even be someone there watching who he knew that she could talk to, that she had a phone number to. Right then and there she decided she’d be going to some away games. This was too much stress to watch from the television.

  But she and Trane were just friends…or something. Him asking her out again had been a happy surprise, which also made them possibly not just friends. He definitely sounded more interested than friendly. Either way, no matter what he thought or how many times they’d been out, she was into him—intrigued. And now totally worried about him.

  After a few very long minutes, the screen went back to the game, which had begun again, and someone else was in for Trane.

  She sucked in her breath. The sportscasters weren’t saying anything about it. “Do a pan of the players. Show me the players.”

  But they were involved in the game. The wings were powering pucks one after another at the Comets’ goal, and Trane’s replacement, who must never play, was doing a good job so far of blocking them.

  Then the Flyers circled, one player faked a shot, passed to the other, and that wing scored.

  The Flyers’ stands went crazy. The announcers talked about how they were the leading contender to win the Stanley Cup that year, and she could only worry about Trane. “Where are you? Show the players on the bench.”

  At last, they showed the line of Comets players. Coach and Trane were deep in conversation. Trane stood, but Coach ordered him back down with one finger adamantly pointing to the bench. Trane took off his helmet and chucked it down the line of players. The coach turned back out to the rink, barking orders to the guys in the game.

  Janae wanted to know what was going on there.

  She didn’t think the Comets could win without Trane. So he must be pretty banged up if that were the case.

  But the Comets’ wing raced down the ice and scored. Now they were tied up, and she wondered if they had a chance after all. Did she want Trane back in? Yes, so they could win. But no, not if he was hurt. She cursed not knowing.

  Then the sportscaster said, “This just in. Trane is waiting for a clear from the sport medic. He was dizzy. Apparently he’s in some pain. But as you can see from this earlier moment, he’s itching to get back in. And I’m sure the Comets fans are just as anxious.”

  A small part of the Flyers’ crowd were apparently Trane fans. A constant, “Put in Diesel,” was being chanted behind the other noise.

  When the coach finally waved him back in, the stands erupted with noise.

  “Trane started his hockey career here in Chicago,” the announcer explained. “Apparently he gives back to the community here, and they love him for it.”

  “Yes,” the other announcer responded, “there’s a whole team of NHL guys from here who trained here, and they all went pro. They started in a nearby program called Northbrook.”

  “That’s right. With Coach Fenwick. He’s still there, working his magic.”

  “He’s had offers from several professional teams, but the word is, he turns them down.”

  “And Northbrook is a real class act. Usually these club teams are so expensive they’re prohibitive for most families. But anyone who’s good enough can play with the Northbrook team. There are scholarships in place. You just have to pass a tryout with Coach.”

  Trane raced back out to his place, bent his knees and looked like he was begging someone to try and score on him.

  Janae smiled. He was good. And he looked it.

  And for the rest of the game, she saw how good. He dove, he blocked, he reached. He was everywhere that puck was, and no one scored off him. When the clock ran out, they were in a tie.

  “Now what?” She had no idea all the particular rules of hockey. She laughed to herself
. But she would learn.

  “And now we go into overtime,” an announcer explained. “The Flyers’ best chance is in overtime. If the game goes to a shootout, anything can happen.”

  “Yeah,” the other chuckled, “no one wants to go up against Trane Jones.”

  The game went to commercial. Janae went to warm up a cup of hot chocolate. The stress was killing her. How did Trane do this night after night?

  She watched him whenever the camera showed the goal. Focused. He looked completely focused.

  After a five-minute overtime, the two teams were still tied. Janae wrung her hands. “Oh, hannah.”

  The announcers were going nuts with stats and the history of the shootout and all the particulars. She learned that each team would get three shots from three different players. Then if it was still a tie, the teams went to a sudden death format, where the teams continued to take shots at the goal until one scored.

  “I can’t take this.” She sat down on the edge of the couch but then stood up again and started pacing the room. “This is incredible.” She laughed. “I need a friend.” She picked up her phone, hesitated for a second and then called Tiff. She picked up on the first ring and without even saying hello asked, “You watching this?”

  “You know I am. I’m dying,” Janae moaned.

  “Me too, girl. But lucky for us we have our Diesel. There’s no way he’s going to let a puck get by, you watch.”

  “I think I’ve about ruined my carpet walking up and down.”

  “You should be over here. I’m just here alone,” Tiff’s voice was light, fun.

  “You too? Next time.”

  “Yeah. That sounds good.”

  Janae smiled. Maybe she’d made a friend.

  Then the six players lined up in the middle of the ice.

  “Here we go! Here we go!” Janae put Tiff on speaker.

  One by one, all six players shot, and not one scored. Trane blocked his three, and the Flyers’ goalie blocked his three. Nothing they did to try and fake him out worked.

  To her, it looked like a blitz of constant shooting at the goalies from both sides. One after another, again and again, straight at Trane and the Flyers’ goalie.