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They’re good, though—my team and the Grizzlies. They react quickly, are on the puck in an instant, battling for it in the neutral zone—the middle of the ice, the space between the blue lines—fighting it out in an effort to regain control.
Josh skates hard for the puck, picking it up, trying to make a pass. It connects, but not cleanly, bouncing over Lucas’s stick blade, sending him off-balance as he struggles to corral it. The fumble takes a bare half of second, but it’s enough for the Grizzlies to close ranks, two on him as they wrestle the puck away.
And now they’re carrying it into our zone.
Into my fucking domain, moving with speed toward my net.
Josh is chasing. His D partner is way the fuck out of the play. Lucas is back-checking hard along with the rest of the forwards.
Two on one.
Not the worst.
It could be two on none, me by myself, trying not to fuck shit up.
I take one hard cut, moving myself to the top of the crease, cutting the angle, but playing conservatively because they’re coming fast and there’s not a lot of time left, and then I’m watching, waiting them out, playing hockey’s version of chicken.
I know these guys.
Know these two.
Know the passes they like to make, what their bodies look like when they wind up for a shot.
And I know that Josh is going to be back in time to cover one of them, that Lucas and the others are going to put pressure on the other, going to prevent the Grizzlies’ teammates from joining in.
So, I know that it’s going to be me and…Gray Roberts, one of the top forwards of the Grizzlies. A leftie with a preference for right wing, but with a wicked shot that can strike from anywhere.
This kid—because, God, the former number one draft pick is a fucking baby—has been taking the league by storm, racking up points left and right.
Particularly with unexpected shots that he releases with his weight on his back foot (something that’s hard as hell to do, and something I don’t see all that often).
But it’s something—along with the other facts—that ricochets through my brain in an instant.
I’m still tracking the puck, still watching, still moving.
But that information is flying through my mind and I’m making adjustments, lasering in on what I need to be focused on.
That weight shift.
The way he draws back the puck.
The fake pass.
And the shot that comes flying toward an open part of my goal.
Open because I left it that way.
Because I know I can cover it and I want him to shoot there.
And because I think I can get the rookie to bite.
And…
He does.
But that shot is so fucking wicked, so goddamned fast that he still almost scores anyway.
I dig in my skates, push past my fatigue, the pain in my side, and…
