We always knew that Toronto would be coming in hot, after winning both of their matchups four games to nothing. Where we’d had to fight past Washington and Florida, taking each matchup to the full seven games, they’d had it easy.
Well, as easy as it gets playing hockey.
Easier than us at least.
They would be fresh, and playing in their barn for games one and two out of the possible seven we’d need to play gave them home town advantage. The roar of the home crowd was deafening, echoing throughout the heart of the arena and I could feel the weight of the thousands of eyes on us, the hope and expectation of Toronto’s loyal fans palpable in the air. It had been a long time since they’d showed so much promise in the post season, and the fan support was a force of its own, giving their team a boost that I knew we’d have to constantly battle against.
Eyes on the prize.
Skating onto the ice for the game, I loved the sting of the cold that hit my face. I ignored the burn in my muscles, the fatigue threatening to pull me down. We were all tired, every one of the Railers. It had been a long season, a grueling set of games leading to this point. But none of that mattered now.
I glanced over at Bryan roughing the ice in front of goal, his eyes focused, a steely determination as he muttered to himself. I knew he felt the weight of replacing Stan, and much as I wished Stan was healthy and standing there talking to his pipes, I knew Bryan had our backs. The first line was out, Ten taking the face-off against a determined Andre Cristo, Toronto’s captain, the puck dropped, and everything else vanished. The game was on.
The first few minutes were chaos, Toronto pushing, us protecting, then the Railers getting the edge, only for Toronto to block anything we tried to make. A tap on my shoulder indicated it was our line-up, the fourth line, keeping the game moving. I fell into my right wing position as easily as breathing, Charlie at center, and Brookes, the new kid pulled up from the minors, who retained that wonder of all things Stanley Cup, on left wing. I never felt more like a veteran than when the kid playing on my line was just nineteen. He could skate rings around us when it came to speed, but he lacked the experience, and the muscle memory of me and Charlie who had several seasons between us.
My blades bit into the ice, each stride was driven by pure adrenaline, and me ignoring every ache in my body. We had a couple of good chances, darting between Toronto’s defense, trying to find a gap, a moment of weakness we could make work for us.
Toronto was not making it easy. Their defense was ironclad, their forwards swift and dangerous. Several times, I found myself up against their enforcer, Oskar Venti, a mountain of a man who wasn’t shy about throwing his weight around. This time, I had the puck, stole it from his defense partner, swung to start a charge, the puck leaving my stick as I shuffled it across to Brookes, the damn thing wobbling as Venti slammed into me with a heavy check, sending me sprawling onto the ice. The hit was clean but hard, a clear message—they weren’t going to give an inch.
Regaining my footing, shaky, aching, I managed to intercept a pass, sending it up the ice to Brookes who’d somehow managed to find space. He deked past one defenseman, then sent a quick pass to Charlie in the slot. I could see the opportunity, the Toronto net minder out of position, thrown off maybe by the hit to me, imagining that was our push done.
Charlie’s shot deflected off a Toronto player, and I found myself in the perfect position to grab the loose puck, Venti a hair’s breadth behind me, almost as if I could feel him reaching for me. With the goalie scrambling to reset, I took my shot, sending the puck rocketing towards the top corner.
The arena went silent for a split second, and then there was a sound that will forever be etched into my memory: the soft thud of the puck hitting the back of the net. The Railers’ bench erupted in joy, and I was swamped by my teammates.
Despite our fatigue, despite being the away team, we had taken a goal in the fourth minute of the game.
I was alive. I was like the king of all hockey, this was everything to me, the roar of our fans, the boos of our opposition’s fans, the ice, the cold, the love, and congratulations directed at me. It didn’t matter than my shin hurt like fuck. I could ignore that maybe there was damage to this old, tired body from the hit.
This was why I played. For the group. For the team. For this one shining moment.
Only, it was momentary, a few seconds in a game of attrition we lost by three goals, my puck in the net the single goal the Railers had managed. Toronto had smothered Ten, kept his skills in check and when we skated off the ice, we were spent, and it didn’t matter how many sports psychologists we would see, every one of us, at the back of our minds, accepted this might well be Toronto’s year. This was just game one, the series was far from over, but somehow the battles were getting too hard to win.
What if the Railers had a team filled with the new kids, the fast ones, the ones who’d come up through so much training they hit the ice the first time and scored goals.
Was there room for me on this team?
“Tough game,” Ten said as he slumped into the cubby opposite mine. Several players made noises of agreement. “We’ll get them next time,” he added. I know he was trying to make things right, but if Tennant Rowe, phenom, couldn’t get free of Toronto’s D-men, then what were the rest of us going to do?
That wasn’t fair.
That almost sounded as though I were trying to blame Ten. I wasn’t. This wasn’t all on him. We were outmatched.
And worse, we were up in Toronto, in hotel rooms, and Stan was down in Harrisburg, and I freaking missed him like nothing I’d ever felt before.
It was a dull ache that matched the pain in my shin.
We had a day to rest after the game, and I pretended not to hobble down to breakfast, but clearly, I didn’t do a good enough job, Coach pulling me to one side.
“See the PT,” he ordered, without explanation or question.
I’d done all the post-game cooldowns last night, stretched out the pain, iced, taken an anti-inflammatory, but I was way too experienced not to understand what was happening to me.
Every shift felt as If I’d taken a puck to the outside left shin, and it didn’t subside until I sat on the bench and rested. Right shin too but thank fuck that hurt much less. What worried me most was that my ankle rotation was limited, because the muscle was cramped and fatigued, and I couldn’t get on the proper edge without a lot of opposing effort. I knew what I was doing.
A PT didn’t have to check my range of motion for me to know that.
Ice, meds, foam rolling, compression sleeves, rest—that was all Toby gave me as he frowned and pushed and pulled and made my life fucking uncomfortable.
