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THE RANGERS HADbeen one of the best teams in the league all season, and today, we were quickly learning why. They were relentless on the puck. Their forwards were constantly coming at us, and the D typically joined the rush. Henrik Lundqvist was no slouch in goal, either. Not a surprise, since he and Nicky tended to fight for that position for Team Sweden every time it came to international competition.
Today, they were having a goaltending dual.
Partway through the third period, shots were coming at each of them almost nonstop, despite both teams actively trying to block the puck before it snuck through.
Marc Staal, one of their D-men, wound up for a slapper. I went down without even thinking about it. The puck got me on the inside of the knee, right where there’s no padding.
“Fucking son of a bitch, that fucking hurts,” I shouted, trying to get myself up so I could return to the bench and walk it off.
Lucky for me, our forwards gathered up the puck and skated out of the zone, and Harry gave me a shove, putting his stick in my back, to help me get off the ice.
“You break anything?” Archie, our head trainer, asked.
I shook my head, grimacing. “It’s only a stinger.”
Bergy glanced in my direction. “Walk it off, 501. Need you in this game.”
“I’ll be fine,” I insisted as I made my way to the tunnel behind the bench, limping around until the worst of the pain dissipated into a dull throb. That was much more manageable. I headed back and took my spot on the bench between Harry and Hammer.
We were defending against the Rangers’ attack again, with Koz, Ghost, and Jo-Jo doing their damnedest to get the puck back in our possession. Koz finally got a stick on it, and that black rubber motherfucker squirted out into the neutral zone.
Ghost turned on his afterburners and shot out to catch up to it. The Rangers’ defenseman covering that point lost an edge and fell to the ice, leaving Ghost all alone. He picked up the puck on his stick and skated in all alone against Lundqvist. High, glove-side. That was what Ghost needed to do if he was going to have any chance against this guy, and everyone on our bench knew it.
He didn’t elevate the puck enough with his shot. Straight into the glove. Would’ve been a bull’s-eye if Lundqvist had a fucking target on him.
Ghost skated back to our bench for a change. “Sorry, boys. Didn’t put enough mustard on that one.” He took a seat, and Webs bent over his shoulder, telling him something like “You’ve got to elevate to accumulate,” as Harry and I headed over the boards for our next shift, along with the third line of Austin Cooper, Otto Raita, and Dylan Poplawski—a speedy trio who frustrated the hell out of the opposition, even if they didn’t tend to score a lot.
Coop won the draw to Lundqvist’s left, and we went to work. Pops set up camp directly outside Lundqvist’s crease, providing an excellent screen and absorbing a ton of slashes and crosschecks that the refs chose to overlook. Otter and Coop played keep-away with the puck, every now and then passing it back to me or Harry while they tried to free themselves of their cover.
Harry wound up and shot it toward the net, and Pops tipped it just wide. Coop beat the Rangers to the rebound and sent it back to me.
I didn’t have a good look at the net. No clear lanes. I passed it back to Otter before shifting myself into a better position.
By now, we’d had the Rangers chasing us for longer than the average shift, and they were tired. The forwards cycled the puck some more, but it got trapped in the corner and two of them went in to dig it out. Once it finally popped free, the puck shot up my side of the boards, so I pinched in to keep the play alive.
The next moment, I was behind the net with the puck on my stick. Pops and Coop both went straight to the paint in front of the net.
I passed it out toward them, and it bounced off a skate. Lundqvist tried to change directions, but it was too late. The puck slipped under his pads and past his attempt to contort his body into a position that might stop it.
“Fucking right,” Coop screamed, leaping into my arms as the other guys rushed to join the celebration. In no time, they were all pounding me on the top of the head and slapping me on the back.
“Did it hit your skate?” I asked Coop. If it did, he’d get credit for the goal. Hell, the Rangers might even challenge it, saying he’d kicked it in.
“Not me, man. It was one of them.”
Huh. Maybe this time I was on the right end of an own-goal situation.
I skated in front of our bench, holding out my glove for fist bumps as I went. When I reached the end, Hammer grabbed me like he was going to give me a noogie.
“Hell of a risk you took, kid. See what happens?”
Yeah. I saw. And I kind of liked it.
The lights over the penalty box came on, signaling a TV timeout, and Jamie skated over to stand in front of me. “Hell of a redirection. Tell me you planned it to happen like that.”
I started to shake my head, but he punched my shoulder.
“Lie to me. Tell me you planned it, because now I want to practice doing that. Need to show my kid brother how it should be done.” Then he winked.
