“We’re getting goalied,” Turks says, sitting in front of his cubby.
I guzzle my sports drink. “Yeah, he’s fucking standing on his head.” I had three shots on goal that were quality chances and he stopped all of them.
We play better in the second. I know if we keep playing our game and getting pucks to the net, eventually, one will go in. We can’t get rattled because of their goddamn goalie.
We’re lining up for a faceoff in the offensive zone. My linemates Turks and Benny and I converge. “Turks, line up on the board side hash and skate behind me when the puck is dropped. I’m gonna get the puck back to you. See if you can get a quick shot off.”
Turks nods.
I’m trying to win the faceoff to the board side using my backhand. It’s my strong side, my right, and Turks is a leftie.
The linesman blows his whistle and I glide to the dot, bent over, stick in my hands. I look up at Jay Bobak, the Bears Center. His jaw is set.
Fuck you.
He has to put his stick down first, and he does. But his winger creeps up into the circle and the linesman notices. He waves Bobak out and the other winger comes in to take the faceoff.
Focus.
I spread my legs wider and hunker down even lower, eyes on the linesman’s hand, every cell in my body on alert. He drops thepuck and I get it before it even hits the ice, chopping it back to Turks, who skates right behind me as planned. He immediately shoots it at the net, and once more, the goalie blanks us. But the puck bounces off his pads in front of the net. Benny’s there but he’s tied up with a Bears D-man, so I bolt for the puck, bodying another D-man out of my way, grabbing the rebound and sliding it in the net.
The goal horn blares, the red light goes on, and I coast to the boards and jump to throw my body against the glass where fans are banging on it with both hands and cheering.
“Yeah!” I hear the guys shout.
Benny and Turks are on me to hug it out with huge smiles.
“Fuck yeah!” Benny says.
“Fucking beauty!” Turks pats the back of my helmet.
We’re tied at two.
In the third, we come out hungry but their goddamn tender is still blanking us. Then halfway through the third, the score still tied, Trev is on the ice with Skinny and Turks. He gets possession of the puck in our end and starts out, about to cross the blue line… and Owen Cooke from the Bears skates up behind him and literally steals the puck away from him.
Trev turns and tries to recover the puck, and it looks like he can do it—heshouldbe able to do it—but his effort is weak and in that split second, Cooke skates in alone on Archie and flicks the puck over Archie’s shoulder and into the net.
The Bears players celebrate taking the lead. Trev skates to the bench and drops down onto it, head bent, shoulders slumped.
I know why Trev couldn’t recover the puck. It was because of his goddamn wrist. I think Trev knows, too.
That was the winning goal.
After the game, the atmosphere in the room is bleak. Nobody’s saying much and it’s painful. I look over at Trev,elbows on his knees, hands dangling. Then he looks up and our eyes meet.
Fuck, I want to say something to him. But I keep my mouth shut.
Trev yanks off his helmet and hurls it across the room with a crash.
“Jesus Christ, man!” Benny says.
“What the fuck,” Smitty adds, scowling.
Everyone’s staring at Trev, then looking away. Nobody knows what to say.
When I’m showered and dressed and ready to head out, Trev is in the corridor looking at his phone. I go up to him.
He slides me an angry glance.
