Chapter 1 #2
“Oh,” I mumble, struggling to speak. If it weren’t for the bulky gear, Eric could easily notice me shaking. Is this really happening? I would pinch myself if I didn’t have to take off my gloves.
“Sorry, it’s just a little hard to hear over the crowd,” I lie through my teeth. I heard him just fine. I just can’t fathom why he’s talking to me. “You’re right. They should.”
We’re two of eight goalies waiting to be picked by a player from another team for the One-on-One challenge. Each player will try to score as many goals as possible against their selected goalie within the time limit.
“This is your first All-Star game, right?” he asks.
“Uhm, yeah. It is.”
“Well hey, congrats!”
“Th-Thanks.”
Eric was voted in by the fans to participate in All-Star Weekend even though he could have easily earned the right through his skills alone.
He’s so beloved he was elected to be one of the weekend’s team captains, representing the Pacific Division.
Earlier today, the four division captains drafted the remaining invited players and were able to pick anyone regardless of their usual division.
Myself, on the other hand? I was chosen by the league thanks to having a breakout season and earning the most shutouts so far among all the goalies. Being recognized for my goaltending and being asked to participate for charity is an honor.
However, I was surprised to have not been picked by Glenn Callahan, the All-Star captain for the Central Division. Callahan also plays for the Comets and serves as our captain back in Chicago. Instead, I was drafted to Eric Sinclair’s team—not that I’m complaining.
“Don’t be nervous,” Eric reassures with a sympathetic smile as if he’s somehow able to read my mind. “It’s just like any other game.”
I’m not nervous because of the cocky players across the way trying to size us up; I’m nervous because Eric Sinclair—my goaltending idol—is chatting with me.
Even though we’re teammates, even though we’ll be sharing a net tomorrow, he doesn’t have to say anything or be friendly, but he’s choosing to, even though I’m not as accomplished as him.
God, I’m on the cusp of falling apart and melting into a puddle of goo. They’ll have to scrape me off the ice.
“Everyone thinks this event’s a showcase of flashy shooting skills,” Eric continues, “but it’s about us and our ability to block their shots.”
Just as I’m about to shove my atoms back together to form a coherent thought, the announcer on the ice interrupts me to begin the challenge.
“Folks, we have eight goal-hungry players who need a dance partner. Remember fellas, you can’t pick a goalie from your own team. Choose wisely!”
Across the way, our opponents mirror our line. Some lean against their sticks, others stand at the ready, eager for their name to be called. They’re a mixed bag of familiar faces from around the league, some more memorable than others.
“First up is Wes Harper from Team Callahan! He’s representing your home team: the Los Angeles Grizzlies!”
The crowd, full of Los Angeles locals, goes nuts for their darling rookie center who’s only nineteen years old.
Ever since the draft last summer, he’s been on a mission to skip the line and advance straight into the heart of the NHL thanks to his once-in-a-generation skills.
He’s fast and unafraid to take on veteran players who have more than twenty pounds—and sometimes twenty years—on him.
Harper’s already left a mark on me in the regular season. The Comets have lost two games against the Grizzlies so far. Harper’s team supports him on the ice, making up for his lack of NHL experience. His speed has been a challenge and few skaters are able to keep up with him.
Harper certainly looks his age, however. He wears a forest green Grizzlies ballcap turned backward which hides his messy hair. He’s soft around the edges, youthful in the face. He probably still gets asked if he wants the kid’s menu at restaurants.
“Despite being only nineteen, you’re on a crazy hot streak, Wes,” the announcer says, holding a microphone up to him.
“I have a great team, and we have the best fans right behind us,” he says while forming a heart with his hands.
I can’t help but roll my eyes as the crowd answers him with resounding support. A section of young women screech his name like he’s a rockstar at a concert.
“You’ve got eight of the best goalies in front of you. Who are you picking out of the lineup?”
Just as Eric warned, Harper takes his sweet time making his choice.
He basks in the glory of being chosen to pick first. It’s all for show as his gaze passes over everyone, heading straight for Eric.
I’m not surprised. If our positions were reversed, I would rather go against Eric too for the drama, the notoriety.
Scoring against Eric would be one way to make a statement in the NHL.
Harper leans into the announcer’s microphone and grins. “I want to go against the best: Eric Sinclair.”
“Well, I guess it’s only fair the league’s star rookie would challenge one of its most respected goaltenders! You heard him Eric, you’re first in the net!”
“Time to get to work,” Eric says, flashing me a wink and a smirk before tugging on his helmet.
He skates over to the net as the arena erupts with anticipation.
Some fans chant Harper’s name, others cheer for Eric.
The excitement is infectious, and even I can’t resist falling under its sway.
It’s almost a shame this pairing’s going first; none of the following matchups will compare.
Harper has a minute to score as many goals as he can against Eric. All my faith goes into my teammate; Harper may get lucky, but I suspect Eric will find a way to keep the point total low.
When both goaltender and center are in position, the whistle blows, the timer starts, and Harper takes off, speeding from the red center line to reach a row of pucks situated a few feet from the net.
As soon as Harper’s stick touches the puck, he performs one of his signature dekes point blank in front of Eric, taking his shot off the backhand.
The puck flies past Eric just above his glove, landing in the back of the net.
Damn.
Yet one goal isn’t enough to shake Eric’s resolve. In typical goalie fashion, he taps the red metal posts with his stick.
It’s okay, I imagine him reassuring the pipes. We’ll get the next one.
People think goalies are weird for talking to an inanimate object, but they don’t understand.
The posts are a goalie’s last line of defense.
My mom always said if you treat the posts right, they’ll treat you right too.
The net’s a confidant, an ally, a friend.
Together the net, the posts, and the goalie himself are the ones stopping 90 mph (or higher) hits from a solid rubber disc.
You would be insane as a goalie to not empathize with your pal in the crease.
Believing he secured the upper hand, Harper celebrates on his way back to the row of pucks, allowing precious seconds to tick down from the clock. His inexperience shows. He thinks he’s undone Eric, but in reality, it’s the total opposite. Eric’s about to unravel him.
When Harper makes his next shot, it’s a high wrister which pings against the post and ricochets to his left. The next two attempts go wide, missing the net completely. This time, the audience cheers for Eric’s good fortune, not Harper.
Frustrated, Harper goes into overdrive, desperately skating with the hope of earning at least another goal in the final twenty seconds.
He fires off a bullet of a slapshot, but it’s tracked and caught by Eric.
Ten seconds remaining, Harper tries another backhanded deke, aiming for the five-hole, but Eric drops to his knees, goalie pads together, totally sealing off access to the net right as time expires.
Harper coasts back to the lineup, shrugging his shoulders, perplexed by the loss.
He was so certain, so confident he could best Eric.
Breakaways, shootouts, five-on-five, they’re all different scenarios for forwards.
No one enjoys having their pride bruised, but he’s young, with many more opportunities in front of him.
Harper’s teammate from Team Callahan slings an arm around him, pulling him in for a hug, no doubt praising him for his performance against a difficult goaltender.
In contrast, the crowd showers Eric with love for his impressive display.
He waves to them, his smile peaking through the cage of his helmet.
This is the closest I’ve ever been to Eric in the net.
Before, it’s always been from the other end of the ice or through a screen, a picture.
If I were up in the seats, I would be screaming his name like everyone else, totally in awe of his talents until my voice became hoarse.
He’s so… incredible, stunning, charismatic.
He’s the greatest goalie of his generation.
Most hockey fans fawn over the players who wear the regular uniform, but I prefer the goalies.
To me, there’s something sexy about the way some goalies carry their gear like shining armor.
Broad in the shoulders, hair a little messy from the heavier helmet and the sweat, thighs thick and powerful behind the pads.
The blocker a shield, the stick a sword.
The confidence, the defiance when they defend their crease.
The physical and mental sacrifices, enduring the criticism and the toll it takes. Few other roles in sports compare.