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The reserve goalie is called Wilson Reyes, and he’s a rookie in his first season. He had very few chances to shine so far, but the kid proves his worth by defending every shot like a brick wall over the net, not letting anything get through him.
I’m positioned near our defensive line when Brooks signals for an attack. However, but the other team’s left defensemen is trying to square off with me and is pushing me against the glass. I hit him in the shins with my stick, making him lose balance, then dodge him to deflect their right-winger from making a shot at the blue line.
But then… I strain my arm. It hurts like a bitch, and I fall flat on my side, groaning in pain.
The referee whistles, signaling an immediate pause in the game. Davies offers me his hand for me to stand, while the medical staff quickly enters the ice to assess my condition.
The medical team takes a few moments to evaluate my injury, checking for any signs of serious harm. Despite the discomfort, I'm adamant about continuing to play. There’s no way I’m giving up now.
After their assessment, they confirm that I can continue playing. With their approval, I gather my resolve and push myself back onto my feet, ready to rejoin the game, with just a little over two minutes left.
And I keep going.
I ignore the pain, letting the adrenaline take over me. Even though I am in a passive stance, just receiving and passing through the right field, the other team seems keen on making me vanish off the rink. They want payback for the trouble I gave them in the first two periods.
One minute remains. We’re tied, with both teams fiercely defending their goals. The opposing team’s goalie guards the net with determination, ready to block any shot that comes his way. Sensing the pressure, I look for an opening, a chance to break through the defense.
Suddenly, Steinberg passes me the puck, and I see my opportunity. With lightning speed, I swiftly glide past the opposing defenseman, leaving him reaching for air. As I approach the net, the goalie moves to block my path, but I fake left, then swiftly shift right, sending him sprawling in the wrong direction.
Now, with the goalie out of position, I have a clear shot at the net. I hear the crowd's roar growing deafening, the sound echoing in my ears like thunder. Beneath my skates, the ice feels slick, each stride bringing me closer to victory. Adrenaline courses through my veins, sharpening my focus and heightening my senses.
With every ounce of focus and determination, I aim for the top corner, sending the puck flying past the goalie's outstretched glove and into the back of the net.
The arena erupts in roaring cheers as the puck hits the net, and I drop to one knee, sweating and miserably in pain but unbelievably happy, getting celebratory slaps on the head from my team.
Thirty seconds left. We’re winning, the Cup is so close we can taste it, so we’re all on the defensive.
Fifteen seconds, then ten, then the final countdown. I’m smashed under a pile of five heavy-set men, then more who come out of the players’ box to celebrate together. When I’m let go, my pain is worse than ever.
“You did it, boy. You did it!” Coach says, erupting in triumphant cheers.
The ceremony rolls on. We get our rings, but I’m barely able to raise my arms, so I leave the honor of lifting the Stanley Cup to Brooks. He’s our one true captain, after all.
All I care about now is seeing Ali and Emily. As I head to the locker room, I spot Alissa and Emily making their way through the crowd.
“Andrew!” Emily calls out, waving to me as they approach.
“Hey, Emily! Hey, Ali!” I call back, crouching down to Alissa's level, a smile spreading across my face. She comes in abruptly for a hug, but I place a hand in front of my body to beg her to slow down.
As I do, Emily looks from my arm to me utterly alarmed.
“Your arm again?” she asks, a hand on my good side. “Since when?”
“Two minutes till the end of the last period,” I sigh. “I just had to keep on playing…”
I stand up and rest my head on her shoulder, and she gently rubs my back, patient and loving.
“You scored the winning goal!” Emily says animatedly as she sees I’m managing to recompose myself. “Imagine how much that stick is going to be worth!”
I notice then that I’m still holding my stick. It’s worn off, all splintered and half-broken, and an idea immediately pops into my head.
“Hey, Ali!” the little girl is already distracted by the other players but looks up to me as soon as I call her. “Got a marker?”
She nods and reaches for her back pant pocket and quickly hands me the pen.
I sign on the stick, with dedication and all. Kneeling, I read it to her, “To Ali: thank you for making me so happy! Andrew Connoly.”
“Is that what it says?” she looks at me, incredulous.
