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Coach Carrington glares daggers into me as we settle into the locker room after the first period, which is totally justified. I know that, and he definitely knows it.
“Larinski!” Carrington practically growls at me, calling me out in front of the entire team.
“Coach,” I respond respectfully.
“That was a dumb fucking penalty, and you know it. You knew it before you made it. You’re a smart player, far smarter than that shit. Look around at your team,” he orders, and I oblige, although I would rather tell him where to shove it right now. “Do you want to lose this game for them?”
“No, Coach,” I bite out.
“Good. Then, next period, don’t make selfish decisions on the ice,” he snaps, then redirects his attention anywhere else but at me. “We are playing well; they are just playing better. Passes could be cleaned up. But where we are falling short, aside from dumb penalties, is on our shift changes. They are too slow or hesitant, and it’s giving the Elmont Eagles a breakaway almost every time. That mistake will cost us goals.”
I’m trying to calm myself down by the time the intermission comes to an end, but it’s to no avail.
JD drags his feet in the locker room, and I know he’s waiting around for me.
As we walk back toward the tunnel, JD asks me, “What’s going on, man?”
“Nothing,” I huff and keep moving.
“Is this about Charlotte?” he asks boldly, and I freeze on my skates.
“No, but if it was, it’s not anyone’s business.” I snap. I know that I’m being a dick, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Look, you just need to talk to her and figure your shit out. Or move on. But you’re distracted, and it’s obvious. You’re not your usual self, and I just want to help you get out of your head,” he says quietly as we walk down the hallway toward the ice.
“Look, I’ll be better out there, okay? Can we just leave it at that?” I practically beg him because if we keep talking about this, I’m going to lose it for good.
I understand that I’m being a jerk, but anger is so much easier to feel than sadness, and I’m going to cling on to that rage until the sorrow is gone.
“For now, sure.” He smirks.
Then, he starts shouting, hyping himself and us up as we close the distance to the ice just as the announcer is welcoming us back.
We’re up one to zero, going into the third period. But in reality, we should have pulled away from them long before now. We need to get some pucks deep, and as much as it pisses me off right now to have everyone in my face, I know they’re right. I need to play better and smarter. I can’t keep letting my emotions make my decisions in this game.
My line consists of Kos, Burnsy, Costy, JD, and I take the ice for the puck drop.
The ref whistles, and away we go. The Eagles win the face-off and move into our defensive zone, maintaining possession with killer and flawless passes.
They continue to move the puck rapidly, no one holding it longer than a couple of seconds. One of them slaps the puck, and it flies toward the net. Without thought, I drop a knee and spin into the shot. It ricochets off of my ankle, and, FUCK, it hurts!
But I don’t have time to feel the pain right now as they wind up and fire again, but this time, Macky catches it in his glove and stops the play.
The puck drops on the dot closest to Macky, but this face-off, we win. My legs are fucking screaming as Kos takes the puck and skates off the other way and buys us some time to change. Costy, Burnsy, JD, and I manage to switch out. But Kos is stuck on the ice for about another minute before he is able to finally get some reprieve when the other team ices the puck.
“Fuck.” Kos winces as he hops the board, and I know his legs have to be burning.
That was a long shift to start the period with. Usually, a shift averages anywhere from forty-five seconds to a minute, although a minute is usually on the longer side.
We begin to dominate the ice as we move into the final five minutes of play. Burnsy scores on a breakaway, making it look so easy that anyone could do it. But that’s what makes Burnsy so good. He’s so talented that everything is almost natural and effortless to him—or at least, it looks that way.
An Eagles player trips Costy and is sat down in the box for a two-minute time-out, giving us an advantage with them down a guy.
Kos enters the zone, and we file in after him, spreading out and passing the puck with speed and intention. One of their defenders makes a fatal mistake. I don’t get this opportunity all too often, so I am definitely taking it.
I slap my stick on the ice, and Costy knows in the blink of an eye what I’m asking for—the puck. He passes it across the ice, and it beautifully glides between three guys. I catch the puck, pull back, and fire. It sinks between the goalie’s five-hole, and for a second, I think he stops it with his thighs. But then I see the puck ever so slowly glide over the red line and into the net.
