The ref drops the puck between Dean and the Gargoyles’ player. Dean wins the draw, dishing the puck back to Elias.
We take off, flying across the ice and breaking into the zone. Malik, number fifty-five, skates the puck in, dishing it to me as I shift along the right wing and he stays by the blue line.
I slide it up to Griffin on the other end of the blue line, who wraps it back around the other way.
Dean catches the puck, drags to the side, finds an opening for a shot, and fires. It pings off the post, the almost goal ringing out.
We’re down by one right now because they got lucky in the first period. The puck took a weird bounce, and unfortunately, they turned that mishap into a point on the board.
But we’ll come back—I’m sure of it.
The Legends hockey team is the best in the league, even if we lost the championship last year to the Knights by one point. That’s not happening again. We’re going to take it this year.
The Gargoyles gain possession off the rebound, and the game shifts in the other direction.
Number eighty-one on their team has the puck and tries to cut around me, but I use my stick and try to steal the puck off him. He moves his skate intentionally into my stick, and suddenly, his legs are flying out from under him before he crashes to the ice.
Malik takes the puck, and the ref blows the whistle, taking everyone by surprise.
No fucking way they’re calling that a tripping penalty!
The ref points at me, and I throw my arms up.
“You’ve got to be kidding! He literally tripped himself! Call this bitch ass for embellishment then!”
The ref ignores me, gesturing with his hand for me to go to the box, and I groan but listen, heading that way.
“Jesus, fuck!” I curse, smacking my stick into the ice.
“Watch where you’re putting that thing.” Eighty-One laughs.
“Oh, go fuck yourself. Flop of the century.” I step into the penalty box, the attendant shutting it behind me.
The Gargoyles are going on a two-minute power play while we try to kill the penalty without them scoring, down a man.
“Fuck!” I curse again, resting my stick against the glass before grabbing a water bottle and taking a drink.
Pulling my jersey forward, I spray some down the front of it and along the neck line, letting the cold water wash over me and help cool me off a bit.
“It was kind of a shit call.” The attendant smiles, and I laugh, offering him knuckles.
“Fucking right? Could have been a demonstration of embellishment,” I scoff, watching our guys keep the Gargoyles at bay. “Ridiculous.”
“You’ve got one minute,” he tells me, and I grab my stick, getting ready to head back out.
We clear the zone and change out, the next group coming on with fresh legs. Neither us nor them can fully take control of the puck—embarrassing on their part since they have a man advantage right now.
We manage to get another change, my line coming back out. It’s out of order, but I’m almost out of the box so Coach wants me to hop right into play.
“Ten seconds.”
We both stand up. He grabs the door, readying to open it, and I pump my shoulders up a couple of times, hyping myself up.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”
He opens the door, and I fly out.
“Legends back at full strength,” the announcer calls.
