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It gets deflected.
I’m moving for the rebound, but a Chicago player cuts through an opening, snagging the puck.
He breaks free and races down the ice toward Ash. Heading toward a one-on-one.
I shift and sprint after him.
The crowd is screaming.
The noise is deafening.
But my focus is zeroed in on the Chicago player.
I’m not staying for fucking overtime.
I have a wife to see.
Chicago is flying.
My teammates are behind me.
But they’re behind me.
And they aren’t as fast as I am.
Ash is getting low in the goal, preparing for the shot.
Chicago shifts to an arcing approach, planning to take the shot from an angle.
But his plan is cocky.
And I’m not gonna let him take a shot at all.
Pushing everything I have into my legs, I go a little faster.
And it’s all I need.
Chicago is locked on the goal, not seeing me beside him.
My stick connects with the puck.
I knock it forward and away from the net, clearing the puck and trusting my teammates to handle it.
But Chicago and I were speeding down the ice at intersecting angles, and neither of us took any care to slow down.
I’m slightly in front when we collide, and Chicago uses his momentum to push me past the edge of the net toward the boards.
But I’m not looking to fuck my shoulder up again so soon. So, at the last second, I’m able to twist. And since this Chicago dickhead is holding my jersey—against the rules—he follows my twist. Straight into the fucking boards.
The already loud crowd gets even louder at the same time the ref blows the whistle.
I don’t mean to look up, but movement on the other side of the glass catches my attention.
Not just movement.
Blizz.
He lifts a hand into the air, cheering for my hit and causing a few of the people nearby to snap their heads in his direction.
