The Tampa Terror

Part 2: Nils

It does not surprise me when my team, the Tampa Bay Lightning, is victorious in the first game. After all, we won the championship just nine months ago, so we have experience in this field. The Montréal Canadiens, meanwhile, won their twenty-fourth Stanley Cup in 1993. That was twenty-eight years ago, and from 1994 through last year, they never reached the final round. Unlike us, they were not contenders for the Stanley Cup in the past five years. Unsurprisingly, they seem clueless about what to do on the ice in Game 1.

They end up losing by a score of five to one. The game is heavily lopsided in favor of the Lightning from the beginning. Most of the players on the losing team give up within the first few minutes of the game. However, some of the younger players put actual effort into the rest of the game. Unfortunately, the rest of their teammates don't assist them in trying to win the game. Their hard work goes relatively unnoticed because they lost by such an embarrassing amount.

"One down, three to go," my boyfriend, Gustav Nordin, holds my hand as we stroll joyously down the hallway that leads to our team's dressing room. "Before you know it, we'll be lifting the Cup high above our heads for the second time in two years. Isn't that positively unbelievable, Nils?"

"Don't jinx everything quite yet, elskling," I warn him, and he just smiles at me in his attractive way. "We've won just a single game."

"And judging by how the Canadiens performed in this first game, it is within the realm of possibility that we'll win three additional contests against them," Gustav wraps an arm around my waist.

"I'm so proud of the progress that you've made in your English," I compliment him. "It's infinitely better than when you first immigrated to the United States. Remember when I tutored you in English?"

"Most certainly," Gustav laughs as we enter the locker room, which is filled to the brim with tremendous excitement and the shouts of victorious hockey players. "I thought you despised me with every fiber of your being, but it turns out that you were just concealing the crush you had on me."

"I'm glad that you eventually discovered the poem I wrote about you and found me out," I kissed his cheek. "I love having you by my side."

Gustav prepares a response, but Steven Stamkos shouts loudly from the front of the room before Gustav speaks. The captain clearly wants the rest of the team to pay attention to him, so Gustav and I remain silent and listen to what Stamkos has to tell the Lightning.

"Men and one woman, we played tonight like we are a team that belongs in the championship series," the captain compliments us as he beams with pride. "If we continue to perform like we did tonight, we will easily claim victory against the Canadiens. It will be a quick series!"

The locker room fills with the cheers and shouts of overjoyed athletes. We are confident that Steven's words are the undeniable truth. This year, the Lightning will take the Stanley Cup back home to Florida, where it belongs.

We perform a victory chant and share a bottle of champagne as we change back into regular clothes. After drinking some of the alcohol that he is legally not permitted to drink, Gustav drags me out of the locker room. Surprised by the sudden movement, I have no choice but to follow him down the hallway and into one of the janitor's closets–oh.

He crowds me up against the wall and kisses me with purpose. I relax into it, threading my fingers through his hair, which is golden like flaxseed. He clutches desperately at any part of me that his hands encounter. I am briefly thankful that my bulky hockey pants help conceal precisely how excited I am about this entire arrangement.

All I desire is to continue with this secret activity, but I force myself to gently push Gustav away. "Let's not do this here, babe. Be patient because we will be back at our house before you know it."

Gustav looks up at me in a flirtatious manner. "I can't wait."

Upon returning to the dressing room, we become the recipients of many inappropriate comments due to our reddened lips and messy hair. We laugh along with our teammates and tease them about various things.

There is a sudden scream from near the visitors' dressing room. However, it doesn't sound like the exclamation of disappointment that I expected from that location after the Canadiens' bitter loss. Instead, it sounds like the person who is screaming is positively terrified.

Without even thinking, I rush to assist the terrified person. I do not know what I am expecting to encounter when I arrive. It is undoubtedly not Nick Suzuki floating near the ceiling, frantically kicking his legs and struggling to breathe as he is strangled by something invisible.

"What is happening?" I question, but I realize immediately that there is no time to be incredulous about what I am witnessing. I run into the Canadiens dressing room and accidentally startle many Canadiens players.

"Guys, something is wrong with Suzuki!" I inform them breathlessly as they stare at me warily. "He's literally floating, and it looks like he cannot breathe!"

"Oh my God!" Shea Weber, acting like the leader he is, is the first to spring up and dash over to where I am standing. He looks up at the ceiling and confirms that his younger teammate is, in fact, floating and choking for no apparent reason. "Guys, he's not lying! Come and see this!"

Some other curious Canadiens join Shea and me in the hallway. Paul Byron quickly establishes a plan. According to Paul, we are to create a stack of humans that is high enough to reach Nick. Then, whoever is on the top of the person stack will pull Nick down to safety.

"Hopefully, whatever is strangling him will release him," Carey Price, who has become the designated Nick Suzuki rescuer, notes thoughtfully. "Otherwise, we might have to put up a bit of a fight."

Thankfully, Carey's worst fears do not come true. He releases his teammate quickly and lowers him to the ground. The Canadian is glaring at everyone with shocked eyes, his jet black hair standing on end.

"I don't know what happened!" He exclaims and gestures at the ceiling. "I was just strolling, and something yanked me up there. Then I felt hands wrapping around my neck, and soon, I was struggling to inhale!"

"Wait one second," Cole Caufield holds up a trembling hand. "Were the hands that you felt around your neck invisible or transparent?"

"Yes," Nick confirms to his horrified friend. "It's almost like they belonged to a ghost."

"Belonged..." Cole hesitates, then gasps. "I need to speak to Shea immediately!"

He trips over his own feet and rushes back into the locker room. Nick shrugs his shoulders when I glance at him for clarification, so I just return to my team's locker room.

Whatever is affecting Cole has nothing to do with me.