Page 282 of On His Team

Percy makes one save off a rebound that has our entire bench yelling before I even understand how the puck stayed out.

With just under five minutes left, we ice it. Michigan sends its best guys back over for the draw, wins it clean and keeps us trapped long enough that my legs start getting heavy. We finally get a puck beyond their defense with around three and a half left, and five of us change almost at once.

I sit down. Take two breaths. Fuller points at Mackey and me. Of course. I get back up.

Michigan’s goalie starts toward the bench with 2:20 left.

“Six!” somebody yells.

By the time I get over the boards, he’s gone.

Michigan has six skaters spread across the zone within seconds. Fuller has trusted Mackey and me with these minutes for months, so there is nowhere else I would be anyway.

The puck moves around the outside while we protect the middle. They send it low, bring it back high, switch sides and try again. Nobody chases farther than he has to.

The clock drops under two minutes.

Then Michigan gets the puck back to the point.

Their defenseman moves it across before Benson can reach him, and I’m coming up from the corner when I see the player at the top of the circle receive it.

His hands separate. His stick comes back. I know what is coming before the puck stops rolling. There is a lane straight to Percy. I get into it. The shot catches me on the outside of my left thigh. The impact is so hard I don’t feel pain at first. It is just a violent crack against the padding and the strange sensation of my entire leg switching off underneath me.

Then it hits.

Heat tears through my thigh so fast my stomach turns. The muscle locks solid, then starts throbbing deep enough that every pulse feels like somebody driving the puck into the same spot again.

My skate slips out from under me. I go down hard on my side. The puck ricochets into the corner. Mackey gets there first.

I try to push myself up and my left leg doesn’t cooperate. The second I put weight through it, pain bites through the muscle and the knee tries to fold.

“Fuck.”

The building is so loud I barely hear myself.

There’s still more than a minute left.

Mackey has the puck pinned against the wall with two Michigan players trying to dig it loose. I get one skate underneath me, then the other. My thigh feels swollen already, tight inside my pants, and every stride sends another hot pulse through it.

I make it three steps before the whistle goes.

The trainer is leaning over the boards before I reach the bench. “What got you?”

“Thigh.”

“Can you put weight on it?”

“Yeah.” Technically.

I sit, and the second I stop moving, the pain gets worse. The outside of my leg is burning now, a deep, ugly throb underneath the sting where the puck hit.

The trainer gets a hand against the padding.

I nearly come off the seat. “Jesus Christ.”

He looks at me. “You sure you can go?”

I’m watching the ice. Michigan has six guys out again. There’s just over a minute left in the national championship, and Mackey is already looking toward the bench waiting to see who Fuller sends with him.