Son of the Godfather: The Moment He Never Had

[GioSivo 177]

1:01...

1:00...
0:59..

 

Puck flew down the ice. A desperate stretch pass to get any offense going. It went untouched, bouncing harmlessly past the goal line. Icing. The whistle blew, but Lorenzo hardly heard it over the roaring in his ears.

One minute left.

 

He bent over the bench, gripping his stick harder than he ever had before. His every breath was shallow, every beat of his heart pounding harder and harder, as if it were trying to burst out of his chest.

 

3 - 1 Las Vegas, 0:59...

 

Focus. Focus dammit. Don't look at the clock. Just keep going. Don’t think about the time. Don’t think about what this means. Just finish the job. 

 

He looked up at the faceoff dot. Jagger Bomb Jr. lined up against Ty Duke.

Just kill some clock. Tie him up.

 

Jagger Bomb Jr. tried to, but Duke won it clean. Halifax controlled it and quickly broke out. Lorenzo shifted on the bench, knee bouncing. He could barely sit still. They’d talked all season about composure. “Stay calm in big moments,” coach always said. But how the hell was he supposed to stay calm here?

He never got this far.

 

The thought slipped into his mind as he tracked the puck. His father never won it. Not here. Not anywhere. He could still hear his dad’s voice from years ago, back in Chicago, when he was just a kid dreaming about a moment like this.

 

"You don’t chase championships, Lorenzo. You chase the game. You play the right way, and maybe... maybe, you get your shot." He still remembered looking in his eyes as he said that. That slight look of pain. His father had given everything, clawed his way through every level of hockey, and still, the big silver trophies had always slipped through his fingers.

 

He knew his father was watching. Somewhere in the crowd.

 

Lorenzo clenched his jaw. It wasn’t fair. His father had never said it out loud, but Lorenzo knew, knew how much it burned, how much it stung to come so close and never get the moment. His father never talked about those lost finals, those bitter playoff endings. Maybe because it still hurt.

 

Maybe because he never wanted Lorenzo to feel that same pain. Lorenzo exhaled sharply.

 

Then don’t. Win this.

 

He hopped over the boards an onto the ice. He'd finish it.

 

0:21...

0:20...

0:19...

 

The shot came fast. Lorenzo barely tracked it, just saw a blur off Belle’s stick and held his breath.

 

Wide.

 

The puck ricocheted off the boards behind the net, Lorenzo's hands tight on his stick, covering his position. One more clear. One more save. One more shift.

 

It gets up to the point, Bolivar lets it rip. Lorenzo watched as the puck flashed toward the net... stopped. No rebound. Lorenzo exhaled, but only for a second. Faceoff in their zone.

 

0:16...

 

Bolivar against Ross. The puck dropped, sticks clashed, and then...

 

BAM.

 

Albin Aldgard flattened Bolivar on the ice, the crowd erupting in approval, their final celebration just beginning. The puck squirted free.

 

Lorenzo didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, stick down, battling against a Halifax winger who was desperate to keep it in. His skates scraped against the ice, body leaning in as he chipped at the puck. Someone else shoved from behind, a blur of red and white, but Lorenzo gritted his teeth and dug in... but it wouldn't get out. Halifax keeps it in. He retreats back to his defensive position.

 

Pass over to Raoul Cyr. He looks for a pass and hedumps it low to Inker Belle. Belle shoots it up to Bolivar. Defense tightens up, Bolivar can't get anything to the middle or across. Bolivar tries to send it back up... intercepted and cleared by Kazuma Satou!

 

0:05..

 

Time didn't matter, it was over. The crowd began their countdown. Lorenzo barely had time to react before the bench exploded.

 

Players leaped over the boards, sticks thrown, gloves soaring through the air. Someone grabbed him.. maybe Danny Ross, maybe Jagger Bomb... but it didn’t matter. They did it. He let himself breathe, finally, completely, as he threw his arms around his teammates.

 

For all Francesco Mancini had accomplished, for all the years he had fought through the leagues, he had never lifted a championship trophy. Not here. Not in the VHL.

 

But Lorenzo had.

 

He wiped his face, though he wasn’t sure if it was sweat or something else. He looked up at the stands, scanning the crowd. He knew is father was there somewhere.

 

Every moment of his short career led to this. Every moment flashed before his eyes. Every moment Lorenzo had spent proving to himself and to the world... that he was his own man.

 

And now?

 

Now he had something his father never did.

 

Now he was a champion.

 

And for the first time all night, he let himself smile.

~816 Words