All in on You

Chapter Thirty-Three

This moment has been a long time coming. And a hard time coming, if that phrase even makes sense.

The playoff implications of this game were simple: Win and you're in. If you wanted to—and no one did—you could complicate the situation. If the Saints lost in overtime and one of their division rivals lost in regulation, then the Saints were in. And if the Saints lost in regulation and both of the two teams that were in their rear-view mirror lost in regulation, then the Saints were in, as well.

But as I had told the team at last week's dinner, we're better off framing things in a way we can control. I hope my message resonated.

Flanked by Adam and Robert, the three of us watched the second last game of the Saints' regular season from the press box. I don't think any of us said more than five words a piece over the entire game. But that's not to say that we weren't expressive. Adam especially was easy to read. Whether he was cursing beneath his breath, pumping his fist, gasping behind his palm, or slapping the counter, there was always some kind of non-verbal cue that gave away what he was feeling. Robert, on the other hand, was perfectly stoic. He watched the game with the same bored expression and posture. A clutch Saints goal and a random whistle interrupting play got the same response from him. Nada.

Admittedly, my behaviour was more in line with Adam's than Robert's. There's a reason why I've never played a game of poker in my life. It's easy enough to get caught up in the action and emotions of the game even when there's not a lot riding on it. Tonight, the rollercoaster experience was only amplified. My heart was racing so fast it was like I was the one out there skating around and making plays. With every up and down in the game, my insides went the same direction.

Because boy, were there ever ups and downs.

The Saints had what should have been a commanding three-to-nothing lead to start the third period. But around seven minutes into the period, the other team got on the board. A shot from the point had trickled passed the goalie, who honestly should have had that one. That lone goal shouldn't have made the Maille Arena collectively hold their breath, but it did. We knew this team too well. Sure enough, the bad guys scored again with just under five minutes to go in the game.

You could hear a pin drop in the press box. I could feel Adam and Robert stewing.

Momentum in a hockey game was a funny thing. It didn't make sense, but it happened often: A team can go without scoring a goal for 75% of the game and then score three quick ones in the final 15 minutes or so.

Hell, it almost happened tonight. Key word being 'almost.'

Eager to tie the game, the other team hemmed the Saints in their own zone, and they got some good chances. They even got a spectacular chance when the puck snuck behind the goalie and was kicked out by Jacob Chandler mimicking a soccer goalkeeper just before it crossed the red line into the net.

Oh Ms. Mayor, give that man a key to the city, please and thank you.

When the final buzzer sounded, everyone could breathe again. Adam and Robert clapped each other on the back and shook my hand.

"We did it," Adam said, flipping his pen against the counter. "We made it harder than it needed to be at the end, but we did it."

Hey, it wasn't pretty, but it counted. The game was win and you're in. And that's what we did.

"Harlow, I hope this doesn't come as a surprise to you, but this is when the real work starts," Robert says. A warm smile makes his words less harsh.

Actually, what doesn't come as a surprise to me is that Robert is already thinking a few steps ahead. As a player, he won a Stanley Cup twice, and he's known for his killer instinct and eyes-on-the-prize attitude.