Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Tonight, I’m not starting, but for the first time in my career, I don’t mind.
I might never have another opportunity to witness Eric Sinclair’s greatness from the best seat in the arena.
Eric’s the kind of goaltender I’ve always wanted as a tandem partner, someone I could learn from through exposure and osmosis.
Eric doesn’t second guess himself with his decisions, and that’s the confidence I’ve been missing from my own backup on the Comets.
Our first round opponent is Team Fournier, led by a captain from the only team in the Atlantic Division which has a positive win rate. From what I’ve heard, hockey pundits have already started speculating that the Eastern Conference won’t be as competitive in the playoffs this year.
Eric takes the spare moments to collect himself mentally and physically.
He leans forward, bending his knees, and watches the game.
His eyes still track the puck, reading the play in order to respond on a moment’s notice should it whip back to his side of the ice.
When Team Fournier inevitably returns to our defensive zone, Eric keeps himself square with the puck, always in the right position, prepared to make the best save.
Everyone’s having a good time. No one’s crashing into each other, no one’s blood pressure is rising from chirps or bad calls.
The skating is flashy, with many of the players trying to show off their skills for an eager audience or to earn a spot in a highlight reel.
People laugh after someone tries a ridiculous, crazy move that would never work during the regular season.
This is hockey as it’s meant to be: played purely for love of the game. Still, both teams want to win.
After another big save from Eric, the jumbotron catches a glimpse of his expression beneath his helmet, the joy in his eyes, the dimples from his grin. He’s having as much fun as the players, a hero for one team, a spoiler for the other.
As time progresses in the period, however, it becomes clear players on Team Fournier haven’t been able to solve Eric.
Even while wearing bulky gear, Eric’s fast, able to move east to west across the crease to respond to the situation as it unfolds in front of him.
Whenever a player tries to get fancy with a backhanded shot or a wraparound attempt, Eric seals off gaps between his body and the posts, denying angles.
Each time he freezes the puck and time stops, he bounces it in his glove as if it’s a regular ball and not a deadly hunk of rubber.
Ten minutes flies by fast. When the clock winds down, the score’s three to zero in Team Sinclair’s favor.
Everyone skates off the ice for a brief intermission between periods.
Eric, pushes up his helmet and waves to his fans in the audience, showing his appreciation with a broad grin.
Then, he locks eyes with me on the bench, making my breath hitch.
On top of everything else going on, I’m still processing the fact that Eric Sinclair’s my teammate tonight, we spent the day together, and I’m about to take over for him in the next period.
“Net’s all yours, James,” he says when he reaches the boards. “Have fun out there.”
The intermission isn’t long for the truncated game. It’s more of a timeout, a chance for the goalies to swap and the 3-on-3 lines to take a quick water break. Players from both benches chat and tease each other about the state of the game and plays from the first period.
I skate out to the crease, imagining Eric’s eyes burning into the back of my skull.
My stomach ties into knots. This is my opportunity to prove myself before him, the audience, the fans watching at home—hell, even my teammates enjoying the break back in Chicago.
At the net, I take a deep breath, pull on my helmet, and let everything except the game fade away.
Team Fournier wins the second period’s opening faceoff again, and within seconds, the player breaks away with the puck, facing nothing but me and open ice.
My teammates won’t make it in time to help defend.
I come out of the crease and meet him head on, rising to his challenge.
He doesn’t expect this, and I’m able to stop his attempt with a poke check like I’ve done a million times.
The sound of Eric cheering with as much vigor as I did pierces through the drone of the crowd.
My heart thunders in my chest, and I can’t help but smile beneath my helmet knowing he’s watching me.
The ricocheting puck’s picked up by one of my teammates, and the action shifts to the other half of the ice. I’m able to catch my breath. I’ve played in games with far higher stakes, but this one’s special in its own way. I earned Eric’s notice, but now I need to hold his attention.
The second period is simultaneously the longest and shortest ten minutes of my life. By the time my turn’s over, I’ve stopped eleven shots on goal during my period in the crease, securing the shutout against Team Fournier, four to zero.
Together, Eric and I stopped twenty-one shots, nearly blocking the same amount. Maybe some would say this fact doesn’t matter given the event’s format, but to me, it’s a sign of our synergy. I’m matching his standard, keeping his pace.
On to the next game.
Team Callahan will be our final hurdle for All-Star Weekend.
For anyone who’s been following this year’s hockey season, Team Callahan’s victory during their first elimination game comes as no surprise with such a stacked roster.
With a strong group of vets to feed the puck to him, Wes Harper serves as the event’s leading goal scorer going into round two, with Callahan leading in assists.
During the regular season, I’ve already faced Harper and the rest of the LA Grizzlies and had a taste of their success.
In every game, they were able to establish a successful chip and chase style thanks to Harper’s breakneck speed.
Whenever a turnover happened in the neutral zone, his teammates quickly secured the puck and passed it to Harper, confident he would race towards the opposing goal faster than anyone else, a silver bullet.
More often than not, Harper scored on those breakaways.
Those kinds of goals make up the majority of his highlight reels.
Wes Harper’s presence on the ice is dangerous, but I have one of the best defensemen in the league playing in front of me.
After an intermission between the elimination games, it’s decided by our team’s coach that I’m going to take the net for the first opening period. No pressure.
During my warmup stretches, I notice Callahan with Harper at center ice.
Callahan has his arm draped around Harper’s shoulder to whisper into his ear.
With the Comets, Callahan is never this chummy with his teammates despite being the captain for the past five years.
A shiver runs down my spine when their gaze flickers to me, and they both share a laugh.
I look away quickly, my hand tightening around my stick.
I can’t let whatever they’re conspiring over get under my skin.
The second game begins with much more intensity than our previous opponent.
Team Sinclair loses the faceoff thanks to Harper, who passes to Callahan.
As expected, the duo takes off, blazing up the ice, barreling towards me.
Braydan knows better than to leave the two unchallenged, and he disrupts the two-on-one by shutting down the passing lane to Harper.
No one would dare make such a risky pass, even someone as bold as Callahan.
There’s only one option. When the puck is shot, I knock it away towards the boards and my trailing teammates.
It’s such a relief to have a defenseman I can trust, someone who’s willing to take charge and make a decision. Braydan prevented a possible pass because he trusted that I could block the shot. That kind of confidence from someone I hardly know is incredible. Is this how Eric feels every game?
Inevitably, the puck returns to our defensive zone thanks to a long pass to Harper, who’s just come over the boards for another shift.
This time, Braydan’s not on the ice, and my defense is chasing after Harper.
I skate a little further out of the crease to meet him, aggressive and unafraid of his playstyle.
I can tell Harper’s not used to being challenged by a goalie because he slows down just a fraction.
In that moment, I’m able to reach out with my own stick for a poke check when the puck’s exposed, disrupting his play.
Harper shakes his head as he circles back to the puck.
A forward’s helmet may protect them from wayward pucks or sticks, but all of their emotions are on display.
In contrast, my helmet hides the lower half of my face and my ear-to-ear grin.
No doubt he was probably looking for more highlights, but I rained on that parade.
Team Callahan struggles to score on me, but my team also struggles to score on their goaltender as well, leaving the period scoreless…
until the final minute of play. Galloway feeds Harper the puck, and he blasts a one-timer through traffic over my shoulder, ruining the dream of a shutout.
I glance down at the puck sitting innocently inside the net, and I scoop it out with my stick and bat it away with a heavy sigh.
The Grizzlies goal horn sounds even worse amidst the roar of the crowd chanting Harper’s name.
When the period ends, I skate back to the bench, dejected. Eric’s already there waiting for me rinkside with a half-hearted smile.
“The accuracy that kid has. He doesn’t make it easy, does he?” Eric says, handing me a new water bottle. “That was a sexy poke check by the way.”
I splutter mid-drink, my face turning red from more than just the chill of the ice.
“You okay?”
I nod, collecting myself. “Yeah, sorry. Thanks.”