Page 68 of Puck Your Bunny

Skating into the corner, I track the play. The Bears captain digs for the puck in the trapezoid. I bypass the predictable glove-to-the-face routine. I just play hard hockey. Timing my approach, I hit the boards with a controlled, brutal thud. I pin the captain against the plexiglass. He tries to push off. I have ten pounds of muscle on him and all the leverage in the corners.

"You look tired, cap." I lean into his ear, my breath hot against his visor. "Legs giving out already?"

"Eat shit, Lars." He drives his composite stick into the back of my skate. He wants me to snap. He wants to draw a roughing minor to get his team a power play.

"Stay mad." I strip the puck from his blade. I flip a blind backhand pass right to Wally parked in the high slot.

Wally fires a one-timer. Their goalie flashes the leather, making a desperate glove save. The whistle blows.

I keep my feet moving. Every single shift, I get right in their faces. I finish my checks, hit them clean, and get back to the defensive zone. They want a chippy, amateur game. We plan to maintain our discipline and skate circles around them. We represent the Reapers. Tonight, we finish the job.

Wally circles back toward the face-off dot, skating past their center. "That's all you got? We see better backchecking in the beer leagues."

The Bears center slashes at Wally's shin pads. "Shut the fuck up, Nelson. You guys are choking."

Wally stares right through him, lining up for the next face-off. He looks stone-faced and laser-focused. He wins the draw, pulls it back to the blue line, and we set up the offensive cycle. Simon moves to the right wing half-wall, creating space. I hover on the left circle, waiting for a rebound. I watch the Bears scramble.Panic sets into their defensive structure. They know our cycle exhausts them.

One of their defensemen hacks at my skates as I cut toward the crease. I turn and catch his eye. "Check your laces, bud. You're falling all over the ice."

He loses his temper, rushes me, and tries to shove his glove into my face mask. I side-step his momentum. He falls headfirst into the boards, looking like a total clown.

I take the loose puck and dump it deep into their corner. I skate hard for the bench. Henry hops over the boards with fresh legs to replace me, chasing the puck down. Simon and Wally follow right behind me, swapping out for the rest of the second line.

We hit the wooden bench. I drop my weight onto the seat, gasping for air. We skate our forty-five-second shifts and get off the ice to keep our legs fresh.

The smell of ammonia smelling salts and damp hockey gear fills the cramped space. I grab my water bottle and squirt a stream into my mouth.

"They're cracking." I look at my linemates. "Their defense keeps chasing the puck instead of playing their zones."

"Keep dumping it deep." Wally wipes sweat from his forehead with a towel. "Force their defensemen to turn around and retrieve it. We hit them every single time they touch the rubber."

"I got the right side on lock." Simon tightens the velcro straps on his gloves. "Their bruiser is losing a step. His top speed is gone."

We watch Henry and the second line go to work. They pin the Bears in the defensive zone. The Heathstead players look gassed. They skate back to their bench looking like they ran a marathon. We represent the Reapers, and we look like we just finished warm-ups.

We wear them down to the bone over the next twenty minutes. Every check, clean hit, and offensive cycle strips their will to play. The horn blasts to signal the end of the first period. The crowd noise swells. Sweat drips down my back. My lungs burn for oxygen. A constant hum of adrenaline floods my veins. I block out the aches and bruises.

I look back up at the VIP box. The first period served as a brutal test. The second period guarantees a war. I pull my skate laces a fraction tighter. The ice belongs to us. The game belongs to us. The Cup goes home to Vayda and Brendan tonight.

The stadium clock reads past one in the morning. We sit in the locker room during the intermission between the fourth and fifth overtime periods. We sit twenty minutes away from breaking the League record for the longest game in hockey history.

Silence fills the room. Guys stare at the rubber floor mats with hollow eyes. The trainers move from stall to stall, handing out chunks of banana and small cups of electrolyte slush to stop the full-body muscle cramps. The room reeks of sweat, ammonia, and exhaustion.

I peel off my soaked base layer. My arms feel like lead weights. I toss the wet fabric into the laundry bin and pull a dry, long-sleeve compression shirt over my head. The fresh fabric offers a brief comfort against my chilled skin.

I grab my phone from the top shelf of my stall. The screen lights up with a new text message.

VAYDA:

Vinny took Brendan home a couple hours ago to get him into bed. Vinny is cheering you guys on the TV. I'm right here. Bury those Heathstead bastards into the ice and bring the Cup home.

Turning the device around, I hold the bright screen up for my linemates.

Wally reads the words. A wicked grin cracks through the exhaustion lining his face. Simon lifts his head from his knees, his eyes scanning the text.

Her fierce command acts like a shot of adrenaline. It reinvigorates all three of us, replacing the fatigue with a ruthless drive to finish the job. We share a look, locking in our focus.

"Drink." Wally shoves a blue sports drink into my hand.