He nods. “We’ll figure out how to score this period. You just keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll get you the W.” He turns toward the bench.
The W.
I let that roll around in my chest for a second like it might crack open something warm inside me.
Because this is it. My shot. My fucking NHL debut.
And it’s only one goal. One weird, dumb, unfortunate goal that doesn’t get to define me. I take a breath, jam my helmet back on, and step out onto the ice.
Stoney skates up to me. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Um, what?”
He skates a circle around me. “I told you after your first start that we’d celebrate at your favorite bar. So which one is it?”
I got bigger things to worry about right now, so I blurt the name automatically. “It’s Sportsballs. North Denver.”
“Cool,” he says. “Love that place. Let’s goooooo!” He skates away.
Heart pounding, I go to the crease like I’ve been doing since I was seven. I tap the posts and rough up the resurfaced ice under my feet.
It’s just hockey. Same shit, different building. I hum “True Faith” by New Order, and I watch the face-off. Then I do my best to turn up the volume.
“SCREEN RIGHT!” I yell, loud enough to rattle my own mask. “I got eyes on it.”
“No lane, no lane, don’t let him shoot that!”
“Cover…” I don’t know that player’s name. “No shot for Ugly Mustache!”
“Newgate! Take his stick, not his body!”
“Stoney, shoot the puck!”
It’s a little like casting a spell. The more I holler, the less I think, and the better we play. The guys start yelling back. They trust me. They listen.
“DON’T BLOCK ME, VITEK, YOU’RE SHAPED LIKE A FRIDGE!”
“STONEY, I SWEAR TO GOD, SHOOT THE PUCK.”
He does, and we tie it up halfway through the second on a gritty rebound goal, and it feels like the world exhales.
The second intermission is a sweaty blur, but Powers seems happy with me, and less happy with his forwards. “Shoot, you fuckers. Calgary skates like their butts are made of lead, and we’re still tied?”
Third period he gets his wish. Kapski lights the lantern with a snap from the left circle—clean, gorgeous, highlight-reel shit. The bench goes electric.
Be careful what you wish for, though. A few minutes later, Calgary pulls their goalie and throws everything they’ve got at me. But that’s how this game works, and I’m ready.
One at a time, I shut them down.
Pads, blocker, glove, stick. Rinse and repeat. I play on pure reflex. Pure fire.
When the buzzer goes, I’m actually surprised. The crowd roars like it’s playoff hockey instead of late-season grit. I drop to my knees in the crease for a second, chest heaving.
I did it. I fucking did it. My mom is probably watching, so I get to my feet to look around for a TV camera, but I’m suddenly mobbed by a pack of Cougars.
“Great game, rookie!” says the captain.
“Good hustle!” growls DiCosta, one of their best D-men.
