Chapter Text
The Goalie Did What?!
In goddamned Dallas, where November still meant blistering heat, apparently, the Voyageurs had apparently forgotten how to play hockey. Or defend. Or not block their goalie’s line of sight.
Shane rapped the posts before he settled back in for the next faceoff.
No more fucking goals!
Dallas had crammed two past him in first period by dint of sheer strong-arming it in both times, and the Voyageurs defense had not managed to pull themselves together and do their job yet, which made Shane’s job twice as hard.
Just- so many stupid mistakes had gone down.
An unnecessary crosscheck five minutes in led to a penalty kill that the Voyageurs had not successfully killed at all, and Wilson had tripped over Shane at the worst moment, which gave the Dallas winger a beautiful lane straight into the net. Which he took. And because Wilson was still trying to roll off of Shane, he had been unable to stop the puck as it sailed just past the reach of his glove.
Wilson had looked fit to cry, which was the only reason Shane had not ripped him a new one.
The second goal had been an unfortunate breakaway; two of Dallas’ fastest forwards out on the same line had managed to break out, and between the snappy passes and the fumbling efforts of the Voyageurs who arrived too late to do anything but muddy the view, but not soon enough to intercept, the puck had slipped in stick-side.
Shane had felt sick to his stomach on that one, because that was one he could have blocked. Potentially. Some defensemen would have been nice to have between the puck and his crease, though.
However, in the last ninety-seven seconds of the first period, it happened.
From the crowded corner, the puck squirted out, and without thinking, Shane caught it on his blocker
He looked over- the center was clear. The Dallas net was empty. They’d pulled their goalie in hopes of forcing another goal on the thus-far easily overwhelmed Voyageurs. Virtually a thumbed nose at their visitors this early in the game, at the last scoring opportunity in the damn first period.
Shane pulled back, swung… up went the puck in a beautiful arc. The nearest defenseman took off like a shot. Down it went, crashed to the ice just at the blue line, bounced once, twice, still slid center… center… the Dallas defenseman still raced after the puck.
The puck slid leftwards, just a little, a troublesome trajectory but not yet hopeless… then through the paint and over the line.
Horns blared, lights flashed. Montreal put its first point on the board.
Dallas 2-1 Montreal.
Shane’s second career goal.
The alarm blew to signal the end of the period.
JJ crashed into him with a bellow, “Et c’est le but!”
The rest of the line crashed in moments later.
“Alright Wallzy!”
“Goalie fuckin’ goal!”
“Let’s fucking do this!”
Shane smiled to himself a little as he made his way to the door behind everyone.
Even gassed up by the unexpected goal at that last moment in the first, the Voyageurs did not manage to get the puck into the net, though they racked up an impressive eleven shots on goal in the first shift of the second.
They managed to keep the puck in Dallas’ zone, away from their own net, with a fairly admirable effort. Nothing to show for it except a few minutes gone.
Then the line change.
That’s when the puck careened back over to Montreal’s zone.
The Dallas goalie didn’t see it.
The puck slid closer.
Shane stuck out his stick.
The Dallas goalie was edged out of his crease as he looked for the puck in the crowd scrambling between his line of sight and the puck.
A straight shot… Shane popped the puck down the ice for the second time that night, and expected nothing from it.
Trajectory was good. The goalie seemed not to see it. The players closest to Shane saw what he’d done, and already turned to arc back around from the neutral zone to Dallas’ zone. The players behind them looked for the puck in their possession, but it wasn’t there.
He eased back to his paint to watch the rest of the eternal wait for the puck to come back down and be snapped up again.
The puck tumbled down at the edge of the crease, bounced once… the horn blared again.
Behind his mask, Shane’s jaw dropped a little.
The arena roared so loud, he couldn’t make a single thing out of the din. Not even when Hayden smashed into him at top speed, screaming something out of a huge grin. This time, the whole line piled on, and he nearly overbalanced in all the shaking. The world’s resolution seemed to lag, everyone moved in slow-motion as they pulled off of him, patting his pads and helmet so many times, it felt like he was caught in the gentlest earthquake.
Dallas and Montreal, tied 2-2.
Ho-ly shit.
Thierault made the locker room loud at the end of the second period.
Both goals on the board came from the goalie, and though it was impressive, it was not to continue. The goal-scorers needed to shake the lead out and put some pucks in the net. Because that was their job.
The implication that only God could help them if they didn’t, went unspoken.
The goalie’s job was to keep the puck out of the net, not carry the scoreboard while there’s five whole people on the ice whose whole jobs were to literally get the puck into the other team’s net.
Not a great look for the historic Montreal Voyageurs.
Shane felt both weirdly pleased with himself, as well as mildly stung at the backhanded compliment as he gulped down electrolytes and an energy bar.
He’d done well, but it wasn’t his job. The rest needed to step up and not make his two lucky goals be the only ones for the team on the board.
Back on the ice, Dallas seemed to have had somewhat of a lesson pounded into them in the locker room; they tried to keep the puck in Montreal’s zone, and they kept someone on Shane.
The whole period felt rushed, messy, and desperate. Hayden and Comeau tried to rush the puck up, got intercepted and the puck tossed back down to Montreal’s zone.
JJ managed to snatch the puck up and get it over the blue line, and a Dallas defenseman iced it down again.
Dallas broke through the line, Shane kept the puck out of his net. No goals in the second, and he would be damned if he let any in in the third.
Time ticked down.
Shane shut the door on every shot.
Number 22 in Dallas green tried a slap shot from up by the blue line? Gloved it.
The big guy with the number 85 on his sleeve tried to smack a fast one in? Batted that away.
Steudlund and Berke left a lane open? He closed it right back up.
His own defensemen blocked his line of sight and the puck came slipping through their skates? Plopped down on that one.
Dallas’ hotshot center tried a sneaky backhand through the traffic? Smacked that down.
One brave forward patiently pulled one up to the crease? Poked that one out.
Hayden got a hold of the puck and tried to break it out to the neutral zone. No success, no one to pass it to, and Dallas’ defenders had been able to strip it and send it back into Montreal’s zone.
Another line change. The Dallas bruiser line went out. Montreal kept them circling and stymied for clear lanes.
Time ticked down. The score remained 2-2.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
Sudden death overtime.
Shane leaned on his net and gulped down more water.
Then he sighed.
If he could just keep up for a few more minutes, maybe Hayden and JJ could pull out some miracle.
Nobody was having a great game on either team, really. Everyone played messy. All it would take was just one lucky shot, and Montreal had a way of pulling lucky shots off in overtime. Hayden and JJ were becoming the duo that pulled it off the most. It was uncomfortably common.
Nobody liked it when their team was known for pulling their own asses out of the fire by literal last second scoring.
Theirault couldn’t force talent and skills to perform, but he could sure run bag slates and suicide drills. And so he did.
The Voyageurs had endurance going for them, at the very least.
Everyone gathered at center ice, the linesmen skated up, the puck dropped, and the clock started ticking down again.
If the last of the third had been fast and desperate, overtime was almost like a frenzy. Dallas had the puck, Montreal stripped it, tried to take a shot, got checked and robbed. Passes connected and went nowhere. Passes got intercepted and cracked off, and shots went wide off the net.
Back and forth. One end to the other. Corner to corner. Around the back of the net. Shots from the side that got swallowed in his glove. Foolish five-hole shots that Shane saw coming a mile away.
Then Dallas pulled their goalie again.
The frenzy got faster.
Wilson and Comeau remembered how to defend.
Reaud went to the boards with the puck. The swarm followed, then the puck squirted out and back down to the corner. Then up a ways again. Shane crouched at the edge of his paint, watching and ready.
The puck shot out-
Dumbass luck of lucks, it shot straight at the goal, and nobody tracked it in the traffic.
Certainly, a fatal mistake on many parts. Or divine intervention.
-Shane’s blocker found it like a magnet.
Hayden was solidly in center ice, forgotten, eyes locked on Shane.
Nobody between him and that empty goal… might as well throw it down and hope Hayden had another sprint in him.
Shane smacked the puck, it flew like a rocket down the middle.
Hayden shot after it with three Dallas players on his tail. It crashed down and tumbled, hit a groove and jumped.
Hayden’s legs stretched further, he went lower, piled on speed from unknown reserves.
The puck slid closer, closer to the paint, smacked the post… and in.
Shane went deaf.
He stood in the paint, eyes glued to the net on the other end of the ice, blocker down, jaw slack, unbelieving.
The scoreboard change caught his attention.
Dallas 2 - 3 Montreal
Then his vision was filled with Roy’s sweaty, grinning face. Then Comeau’s. Then Taylor’s. One after another after another. He wobbled dangerously on his skates as his pads and helmet got pounded from every direction. Then JJ’s booming French directly in his ear seemed to reboot his hearing; “Tour de Chapeau! Tour de Chapeau!”
A fucking hat trick.
A netminder’s hat trick…
nobody else… he couldn’t remember if anybody else had done it before. He didn’t think anyone had.
The sea of white and blue and red parted for Hayden’s grinning, crazed face to appear. He pulled Shane in for a crushing hug, and then pulled back for a headbutt, and a giddy “Fuckin’ hat trick Wallzy! The brick-fuckin-wall got a hat trick! Goalie fuckin’ hat trick!”
Shane’s tongue loosened.
“Swear jar.”
Hayden cackled deliriously, and the crowd loosened.
Then Shane’s eyes hit the crowd- a sea of Dallas green was on its feet, applauding, screaming… for the visiting team’s goalie.
Who had made not just one improbable goal, not two, but a truly impossible three goal game. In overtime.
The first in NHL history.
Well, how about that?
The End…?