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“…the puck completely crossed the goal line. We’ve got a good goal, Detroit.”
The referee points to center ice, indicating the end of the shootout and the game, only Jimmy’s second win in the shootout all season.
It was a monumental win for both himself and the team, who once again found themselves fighting late for a playoff spot in April thanks to a truly dismal March.
Just like in the win over Chicago, his teammates pour off the bench to congratulate him. There are helmet taps all around, and Jimmy makes sure to give Helmer his fair share for scoring the game-winner tonight.
The tightly-pressed mob of Red Wings jostles as Mraza leaps into the fray. He had become known for his exuberant celebrations when everyone first learned his name at the World Junior Championships in 2012, initially for his outstanding play but then his larger-than-life personality.
Had Jimmy not been wearing his helmet, Mraza’s fingers would be tangled in his hair the way he puts his hand on the back of Jimmy’s head to give it an affectionate shake. Petr’s infectious smile seemed to make everyone else’s that much wider, that much brighter, and they’re all happily relieved when they get back to the visitor’s dressing room.
Coach Babcock was less pleased, of course. Way too many penalties were taken by his team tonight, including another infraction for having too many players on the ice.
It’s not that hard to make a fucking line change, men, he’d said from the bench with annoyance. It had been a bugaboo of theirs all season, one that seemed to trend in clusters of games in the same way players get on hot streaks, and they needed to fix it before the playoffs. When they made it, of course; they had to believe they would or they were certain to fail in getting there.
They have to fly out of Minnesota that night to be ready for their early game tomorrow in Detroit, which sucks because it leaves them with little time to enjoy a rare shootout win. Of course, Coach will just tell them they need to get ready for the next game, travel or no travel, because they hadn’t locked up a playoff spot yet and needed to focus on winning outright instead of in a skills contest.
Red Bird III is quiet on the two-hour flight home, though not subdued like it had been far too often over the last month. The coaches sat up front, heads bent together to discuss the game just played and the one less than twenty-four hours away; theirs was a much different energy than the relaxed and sleepy atmosphere where most of the players were reclined and dozing in their cozy leather seats.
Wins are usually better at bringing sleep, Jimmy thinks, himself very much awake despite his eyes drifting closed soon after takeoff. The thrum of the plane’s engines wasn’t what kept him from falling asleep, though the sound tugged at the edge of his consciousness, ever-presently reminding him of his current insomnia.
The plane touches down gently and they take a jostling bus back to the Joe, where they each grab their gear bag from the storage in the undercarriage to haul inside. Any little bit helps out the equipment managing team, especially when they get in so late and everyone wants to get home as soon as possible.
As the largest and heaviest bags of the team, Jimmy’s and Petr’s are the first ones loaded and the last ones removed, so they wait side-by-side in the chill of the early spring night as the rest of their teammates pick up their own gear and file inside like a bunch of well-dressed ants. Petr is giving Jimmy a sidelong glance that Jimmy recognizes, even in the dim light of the parking lot. Jimmy waits as Petr shoulders his bag, and then claps the rookie on the shoulder as they walk together toward the arena.
In the halls, they pass the first wave of teammates already on their way out, throwing out see yous and inclinations of their heads as they begin the drive home to welcoming beds. About a third of the guys are still in the dressing room when the two goalies arrive, chatting idly but trickling out one by one once they’d set their bags down in front of their respective stalls.
Jimmy smoothly takes a seat on the stool in front of his locker. Petr stays standing, though, of course, he doesn’t look nervous or flustered in the slightest. Always cool as a cucumber, that one, Jimmy marvels.
Kronner, Zid, and Shea are the last three to leave, and Zid looks ready to wait for Jimmy and Petr to join them walking out until Kronner and Shea give the netminders quick nods and exit. Zid instead gives them a brief, quizzical look before realization crosses his features, and he follows the other two out of the room.
Jimmy remembers hearing how the players in New Jersey didn’t kneel for each other, at least not as long as any of the current ones could remember. After nearly three decades of a general manager who ruled the organization with as tight an iron fist as was possible, with well-known disdain for things like playoff beards and high jersey numbers, it wasn't much of a surprise when Zid had revealed that kneeling had also gone by the wayside.
Once the footsteps of their teammates receded, Jimmy looked to his younger counterpart, who to his credit still looked as though everything was normal. Then Petr’s face splits into a grin, and he approaches Jimmy when the elder goalie nods; one knee drops as the distance between them closes, and then the other.
Petr ducks his head, eyes closed, but not in a sign of submission. His face is perfectly relaxed, lips even quirking up at the corners, and he rests his cheek on the inside of Jimmy’s right thigh. Content would be the word to describe his expression; had he been a cat, a rumbling purr would surely be sounding from somewhere deep in his chest.
Jimmy reaches out with the fingers of his left hand, stroking the short hair next to Petr’s ear.
“What’s up, kid?” he asks softly.
Petr lets the question hang in the air for a few seconds before replying.
“Wanted to congratulate you on shootout win,” he murmurs, turning more of his weight into Jimmy’s leg.
“Usually kneeling is meant for your benefit,” Jimmy reminds him, but he ruffles Petr’s hair anyway. “I’m supposed to keep you in check, keep you from getting too high on yourself.”
“Or pull me out of slumps,” Petr remarks, referencing his stretch of poor play in January in which he was relied upon as the starting goalie for his team. Or the only goalie, really, since both Jimmy and Jonas had been hurt at the time and Coach apparently didn’t trust Tommy as far as he could throw him.
Jimmy had been there despite his injury to remind his headstrong rookie of the cruel mistress that was luck in the game of hockey. Sometimes the fortunes were in your favor, other times it seemed all the breaks went to your opponents. Petr knew that, of course, but Jimmy knew that frustration had bubbled hot under his steely composure, close enough to the surface to warp it.
“And reassure you that you’re meant for greatness in this league no matter how many times you go back to Grand Rapids,” Jimmy says. He circles his right thumb at Petr’s temple, and Petr’s mouth curls up into a grin.
“Better for team when we both playing well,” the rookie sighs. “You say kneeling is for me, but it’s for you too. Remind you that you’re veteran and I have a lot to learn.”
“You think I’m threatened by you, little Griffin?” Jimmy chuckles. “You’re right—”
Petr snaps his head up off of Jimmy’s leg, eyebrows pulled together slightly in disbelief.
“—it’s better when we’re both on our game,” Jimmy finishes, chucking Petr under the chin with one crooked finger. “We’re going to be a good tandem next year. You and me, we’ll push each other. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Petr grins too. “I teach you how to puck-handle better?” he quips, and Jimmy lets out a bark of laughter this time.
“Teach me tricks for 3-on-3 overtime while you’re at it,” Jimmy says, and Petr sets his face and nods, deal done.
Then Petr nuzzles his face into Jimmy’s thigh again, eyelids falling closed once more as Jimmy threads his fingers into Petr’s hair. “You not worried about what happens come playoffs?” Petr asks tentatively, as though hesitant to even broach the subject.
“No,” Jimmy says firmly. Petr makes an aborted movement against his mentor’s leg, almost a flinch at the sharp certainty in Jimmy’s voice.
“I’m not worried about it because I believe the best decision will be made for the team,” Jimmy continues, voice gentler. “Whether it’s you or me in goal, it’ll be because that choice gives us the best chance of winning.”
“But what if neither of us can be what the team needs?” Petr asks, and Jimmy hears the long-standing question in the way his voice trembles slightly. It had echoed around the locker room from the media for a couple of weeks now, and Petr, in all his unflappability, had taken the question too close to heart.
“Then we lose,” Jimmy sighs. “But if anything, it’s on my shoulders. Right now, in theory at least, the team is supposed to look to me to be their last line of defense. Of course I want to be the one to backstop a championship team, but it shouldn’t be your problem if I falter.”
“And what if I fail the team?”
What if I’m chosen over you? is the implied second question.
Jimmy’s mouth twitches. “Even Dominic Hasek got pulled in the playoffs, kid,” he says, thumbing at the angle of Petr’s jaw in gentle circles. Petr doesn’t look up this time, but he frowns slightly. Jimmy continues, “Really, I saw it happen.”
“Didn’t know,” Petr mumbles.
“It’s true. 2008, first round against Nashville. Won the first two games, but then Dom had two bad games in a row and that was it.”
“What happened?” Petr asks, eyes still closed.
“Ozzie came in and saved our asses,” Jimmy says. “Took us all the way to a Cup that year.”
Petr hums quietly. “They were a good tandem,” he infers.
“Best in the league that year. Jennings trophy winners.”
“Mm,” Petr hums again. “Not competition.”
“Not in the sense that one of us is losing his job over it,” Jimmy assures him. “I won’t ask for a trade and believe me, they’re not getting rid of you.”
He scritches his fingers against Petr’s scalp, fluffing up the rookie’s hair a bit as he goes. He almost strains his ears for the sound of a cat’s purr again as Petr sighs and presses his face into Jimmy’s leg once more.
But the rookie relaxes, more tension leaving his shoulders than Jimmy realized had been there in the first place. And Petr, once more to his credit, does not look deflated with it, but relieved.