Page 263 of On His Team

Benson throws a towel at him.

The third is seven minutes old when Benson wins a draw cleanly back to me. There’s traffic in front, so I don’t shoot for the net. I shoot for Owens’ stick.

He gets a piece of it.

The puck changes direction and misses the post by maybe six inches.

Owens tips his head back.

On the way past him, I tap my stick against his shin pad. “Again.”

He nods.

A couple shifts later, Marsh gets tied up below the goal line and kicks the puck toward the corner instead of trying to force his stick free. Theo gets there first and throws it toward the crease. It hits one skate. Then another.

The puck dies in front.

Owens is already there.

His first shot hits the goalie’s pad. The rebound drops into his skates while a Minnesota defenseman shoves him from behind.

Owens nearly goes down. He stays with it and gets his stick underneath the puck again. Jams. Bodies collapse around the crease, and for a second I can’t see anything. Then Owens throws both arms up.

The referee points.

Our bench erupts.

Walker Owens comes out of the pile with his mouthguard hanging out and his eyes huge like he’s as surprised as everybody else.

2-1.

There are a little more than eleven minutes left.

Minnesota starts pushing harder, and Fuller shortens the bench. Mackey and I are playing enough that I stop looking at how long I’ve been sitting between shifts because the answer is never long enough.

Then Marsh gets called for hooking with 6:12 left. He looks up at the replay while skating toward the box, sees his stick underneath the guy’s hands and exhales.

“Yeah. Okay.”

The door shuts.

Mackey and I take the first unit.

Minnesota gets one clean look from the circle that Percy catches. Another gets tipped over the glass. I get a clearing lane once and put the puck directly into their defenseman’s glove at the line.

“Fuck.”

“Again,” Mackey says.

Ten seconds later, it comes back to me. This time I put it off the glass. It gets out. Marsh comes out of the box while Minnesota is regrouping and jumps straight back into the play.

When I finally get to the bench, Benson drops beside me breathing through his mouth.

He looks at the clock. “Four.”

“Yeah.”

He squeezes the back of my neck once, then Fuller calls his line and he’s gone again.