Page 43 of Goalie interference

I was primed to have a shitty night…

Enter Notre Dame.

Notre Dame had an amazing defense. Their goaltenders left much to be desired, but their defense was truly a sight to see at work. It meant little to me, since I mostly dealt with forwards, but it meant they were a true force to be reckoned with.

And our only real contenders when thinking of the Frozen Four.

They were a vicious bunch, and my defense was nowhere when I needed it. They were sluggish and casual because this game didn’t matter as much as some others, but it mattered to me.

And I was getting fucking beaten up.

There was a pretty loud rule in hockey–you didn’t touch the other team's goalie, or face the wrath of the whole team.

Only my whole team was a good shove from falling over and staying down.

My back hurt, my arms hurt–my leg was honestly killing me for the first time in months. I had Thayer work on it during intermission, but it was already hurting again, and we still had over half the game left–it was brutal.

The puck dropped again, and I let out a quick groan, already tired of what I knew was about to be a brutal attack on my goal. I'd been playing well and had only let one past me, as opposed to our team's three so far, but that only made Notre Dame hungrier to get past me.

There was a lot of confusion around my net at once.

Too many Notre Dame players and too many of my guys, batting at a comparably tiny piece of black rubber. I was trying to keep my eyes on it, get it away from the crease, but someone's stick got caught in my skate.

The stick pulled me down, smacking the back of my head into the goal post, and knocked off my helmet, just in time for my head to hit the ice.

Everything was suddenly too much.

It was too bright, too loud. I couldn’t open my eyes fully, but I heard the piercing whistle sound that stopped play. I heard my teammates talking way too loudly and felt too many hands on me, trying to get me off the ice, but everything was warping around me, and I felt sick already.

It was jarring.

Whoever helped me off the ice set me on the bench with something cold on the side of my head that got hit. They gave me all of two minutes to start collecting my thoughts and recentering before flashing a light in my eyes and asking me to follow a finger.

One of the trainers went over my cognitive test, just as a quick assessment for whether I had a concussion, which I already knew I had passed. I was out of it for a second there, sure, but I knew what a concussion felt like, and it wasn't this.

I’d had my bell rung once before, and that wasn’t a feeling you ever forgot.

“I’m fine,” I grunted, pushing the cold press off my head.

Very few things actually stopped play in hockey, but a hurt goalie always did. It was a debate about whether or not to put me back in because shifting goalies out wasn't as easy as shifting a normal player.

Still, they wouldn’t hold the game forever.

I knew I was fine, so when everyone backed off, I started making my way to the ice again, only to get stopped by a heavy hand on my shoulder. I looked back, expecting it to be Reed or a trainer, but no.

It was Thayer.

“He’s good?” Thayer asked the trainer, not even looking at me.

“He’s…within range,” the trainer answered, almost reluctantly. “Barely, but he’s in range.”

That fucker.

“I’m fine,” I said calmly, pulling my shoulder back to lose his hold on me.

“Ash–”

“Don’t do this,” I interrupted, holding his gaze like it was just us–the rest of my team and staff didn't exist. “We had a deal–I am telling you I am fine.”