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Brit
He’s bringing the puck across the blue line, skating toward me with a speed that has me fighting my instincts.
To slow down.
To back up.
To retreat and give him space.
But that’s the wrong move.
One hundred percent the wrong move.
That will give the skater—the potential shooter—far too much space to make trouble for me. Better angles to shoot, more room, more time to make a move and score.
So, I fight that initial instinct and push through, charging out beyond the top of the crease—that semi-circle of blue paint in a rapid flash of motion. The move cuts off his angles, gives him less room to shoot, puts him on his heels a little.
Because all that space he thought he had?
It’s gone.
I don’t watch his hands. Or his face. And I’m only obliquely keeping track of the puck.
I’m locked in on his hips.
Because his hands can fuck around, the stick an extension of them. His shoulders can zig and zag, as he ducks and dodges, attempting to fake me out. But Shakira’s right—the hips don’t lie. He can’t move without them.
And—
That.
Right there.
He leans to the left, but I see the shift in weight before he moves hard to the right.
And I’m ready.
I dig my skate blade into the ice, ready, waiting…
Go!
My side twinges with a sharp slice of pain, protesting against the movement. All the rehab in the world can’t make all of it go away, but I push through. I’m used to pain at this point, used to grinding through, ignoring, playing, living.
Bruises and broken bones.
Cuts and torn muscles.
Fatigue and lungs feeling like they’re going to explode.
And still…finding a way to play hockey.
I cut hard to the side, waiting until he’s close, knowing he’s committed to the move, making sure if he can transition to a shot—and he damned well can, because these guys are good, fucking great, and they can switch between a move, a shot, a pass, and back again in an instant—it won’t be a good one.
Because I’m good.
I’m fucking great.
So, I can hang with him. I can transition. I can handle whatever he throws at me.
