Page 278 of On His Team

Nobody answers him.

We know.

Stanley’s line is still out when we finally start spending more than ten seconds at a time on the other side of center. Michigan has backed off just enough that our forwards can get through the neutral zone without dumping every puck, and the game starts opening in little pieces instead of all at once.

I’m halfway through a change when Stanley gets the puck along the wall.

He’s come off that side hundreds of times this season. Usually he carries it wide and waits for something to open underneath him, but Michigan’s defenseman is already leaning that way, expecting it. Stanley sees it too. He plants his outside skate and cuts underneath him instead.

Straight into the middle.

Straight into the part of the ice Aspen has been yelling at him to attack since New Year’s Eve.

Their defenseman realizes too late and reaches across him. His stick catches Stanley through both arms, but Stanley keeps his feet and gets enough of the puck to send it toward the net from maybe seven feet out.

It goes under the goalie’s arm.

For half a second, Stanley keeps moving like he isn’t sure.

Then the red light comes on behind him.

Our bench is over the boards before I hear the horn from the goal. Stanley turns toward the corner with both arms spread, yelling something I can’t hear over our side of the building. Marsh gets to him first and nearly puts him through the glass. Owens piles in from the other side, Benson jumps on both of them, and by the time I reach the corner, Stanley is somewhere underneath everybody.

When we get back to the bench, he’s still grinning hard enough that his mouthguard is hanging out.

“One,” he says.

Benson shoves him toward the door. “Sit down.”

Stanley sits.

The scoreboard above us says 1–0.

We keep it for less than three minutes.

Michigan gets possession high in our end late in the period and moves it across the point before we can close. Their defenseman shoots through four bodies. Their winger is planted directly in front of Percy, and Percy is already dropping when the puck changes direction somewhere in the traffic.

He looks behind him.

So do I.

It’s in.

Percy smacks his stick once against the post, more irritated than anything, while Michigan celebrates along the opposite wall.

There isn’t much to fix. Nobody blew a coverage. Nobody left a man alone. A puck came through four people and found the net.

By the time we get back to center, the scoreboard says 1–1.

That’s where it stays through the horn.

The room at intermission doesn’t sound the way I thought a locker room would sound twenty minutes into a national championship. Nobody is giving a speech. Nobody is screaming. Guys are pulling gloves off, reaching for bottles, wiping sweat out of their eyes while trainers move between stalls.

Percy takes his helmet off and sits with his forearms on his knees. Mackey is beside me adjusting something on his skate. Blue hasn’t said a word since we came off the ice.

“Just so everybody knows, if we lose, I’m transferring.”

Benson looks over from the stall beside him. “You graduate next month.”