6. Matt
MATT
Walking into the locker room after warm-ups, I’m still in disbelief, thinking of what just happened.
When I got to my room, needing a mental getaway from the chaos in the locker room, I didn’t expect to find a different form crackling in the air. I didn’t expect to find someone already in there—in the dark, mind you. But even more, I didn’t expect said person to be Shay Rooney.
She’s a goddamn badass goalie, who really got dealt the worst cards possible. I remember finding out about her accident moments after it happened. I couldn’t believe it. The guys and I were over at Alec Kostelecky’s house. We tuned in the game the moment we caught wind of it.
I’ll never forget the red that painted the ice and the way everyone held their breath while she was wheeled out on a stretcher. It was terrifying. Truly.
God, it was all I saw on social media for nearly an entire month afterward.
Articles, podcasts, everyone from the pro league to minors to non-hockey groups …
they were all talking about it. They called her a miracle, praising that she had faced death and won.
But from the broken soul I just comforted, I think death may still be hanging on to her after all this time, a shadowed cloak draped over her shoulders.
I can’t imagine what she went through—and is still going through.
If hockey were ripped away from me like that, I wouldn’t know how to function or breathe. I know it’s been just as much a part of her life as it has mine. I know how lost I’d be, and I’m sure it’s the same for her.
I still can’t believe we recruited her for a goalie coach. I don’t know how long we’ll be able to keep her, especially after what she went through on her first day, but I sure hope she stays. We’d be lucky to have her.
“Ready?” Jeremy Huang, my tandem goalie, asks me as I plop down on the bench next to him.
Nodding sharply, I try to push Shay from my mind. It’s game time, which means nothing else matters.
Not until the third period runs out and I strip out of my uniform. Until then, I’m a robot for the Nighthawks, keeping everything locked inside—about my family, about my newfound concern for Shay. All of it.
“Let’s roll!” Becky, one of the team coordinators, shouts, telling me it’s time to line up for the starting roll call.
“Yes, ma’am!” JD salutes playfully, cracking a joke, like he always does.
Becky rolls her eyes, then says something into her headpiece before glancing down at the stack of papers secured on her clipboard.
The guys cheer and pump themselves up, but I’m silent, waiting for the cue to go, which comes only a second later.
They murmur to one another, reminding me how much of a different game we play.
While they rely on teamwork and lifting one another up, I play an isolated game.
My direct teammates are my posts and my gear.
I can’t rely on my defensemen solely to do my job, no matter how big of a difference they make. I’m on an island all by myself.
“Let’s do this,” I whisper, strolling down the tunnel.
The announcer’s voice booms from the speakers introducing the Nighthawks to the arena, and the starting five step to the side, letting the nonstarters take the ice and skate around a short lap before he announces the starters.
“Center for the Nighthawks …” He draws it out. “Number sixteen, Alec Kostelecky.”
Alec shoots onto the ice, quickly finding his spot on the red line.
A large camera is a few feet in front of him, capturing him in ultra definition.
Cam Costello is announced next, one of our forwards, followed by the other forward, Brett Burns.
Next is the defensive pair, Reed Larinski and Jensen Donnelley. And then finally, me.
I skate out onto the ice, calm and collected, my mind already in the net, ready for puck drop. This is my home, my favorite place to be. Good day. Bad day. Doesn’t matter. On the ice, I’m whole.
Clenching my hand in my glove, I rock back and forth on my skates, restless and ready to get into my crease. But I’m stuck on this red line until the anthems are done, both the US and Canada, as we're playing a Canadian team.
Finally, when the music stops and the military colors leave the ice, I can skate over to my home, tucking myself into my net like a turtle before I emerge and start carving up the ice, creating traction against the smooth surface.
It might not seem like much, but all the friction we can get makes a difference.
I exhale fast and heavy, emptying my lungs of as much air as possible before breathing in deep. Game time, and I’m ready. We’re going to win this and snuff the chance of making it to the playoffs from the Eagles.
The ref and other players set up around center ice, the lights illuminating the arena. My skin hums with excitement, the echoing cheers vibrating through my body.
This is the best goddamn fan base in the world.
I run the player stats I’ve memorized over and over in my mind, dissociating just enough to take the edge of nerves off, but not too much so I can still stay focused.
“Twenty-one. Defenseman. Weak passer. Great deflector. Has eleven goals this entire season. He’s due for another,” I whisper under my breath as I stand and flex my legs while the group moves down the ice, breaking into the other zone.
Someone takes a shot, but it deflects off of the goalie’s blocker as he slides across the net through the crease.
“Nice block.”
The Eagles dribble the puck on the back side of the net, waiting for their defensive pair to change out.
The puck’s passed to someone on the center line and then to one of their players, who brings it into the zone.
I lower into position, blocker and glove at the ready.
My defensemen are in position, ready to lay their bodies on the line for the game.
I owe a lot to my defensemen on the team. They take some hard shots straight to the body, having far less padding than me. But it’s because of them that I’m able to shine as bright as I do. That doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated.
“Forty-nine. Forward. Has the puck. Passes to …” My words fall by the wayside as he passes it to the receiving player, stick ready to swing through. “Come here. I see you.”
I grunt as the shot bounces off of my chest. Letting it slide down my pads, I dish it to Larinski, who takes it behind the net, allowing Kos, Costy, and Burnsy to change with the next line.
With fresh legs on the ice, Larinski tosses the puck across the ice, finding our rookie forward, KJ Brenner’s stick.
Our youngest player, Charlie Jenshak, catches Brenner’s pass, dekes out the defenseman, and shoots the puck right through the five-hole of their goalie.
The lamps light up, both across the ice and behind me, as the building erupts with life and celebration.
My heart skips a beat, and I shake my head forward, shifting my helmet.
People have said I sometimes look like a chicken on the ice with the way I shake my helmet, but it’s become a routine thing to do after every play dies.
The score during the rest of the first period remains unchanged, and it stays the same through the second and most of the third period. Unfortunately, one of their defensemen manages to sneak a shot past me as I’m blinded by one of their forwards, tying the game up one to one.
Fucking idiot. You should have seen that screen coming and shifted. Do not cost them this game.
“I’ve got this. I’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath as they reset at center ice with three minutes left in the game. “Come on, boys.”
My breaths shallow out, and I have to force myself to take deeper ones, filling my lungs to capacity.
Stay focused.
The ref drops the puck, and we gain possession, our starting line back on the ice. Costy brings the puck into the zone, dishing it back to Larinski, who passes it to JD as Burnsy works to get open.
Rerunning stats through my mind to cope with my anxiety, I watch with bated breath as JD slaps the puck hard to Burnsy, who redirects it … but I lose sight of it. It doesn’t matter though because our boys burst into excitement, their sticks up in the air.
Hands slap the glass behind me, the best crowd in the league losing their mind as we take the lead with only two minutes left. Turning to my net, I set my stick on top of it and grab my bottle, spraying water into my mouth.
My shoulders lighten as I replay the goal in my head. But as I secure my water bottle and grab my stick, the tension returns, and it stays like that until the clock runs out and we win, two to one.
My ears start to ring as the crowd goes crazy, seemingly louder than I’ve ever heard them. My team skates over to me, forming a line.
Kos is first, bumping my helmet with his and patting the back of my head. “Great game, Matty.”
“You too, man,” I tell the backbone of our team.
Costy is next. “Killed it, Big Mac.”
Then Larinski. “Good job, buddy.”
Burnsy bumps my helmet next. “Woo-hoo! Love you, Macky.”
I swear I have more nicknames on this team than anyone else.
JD taps my shoulder repeatedly after he approaches. “Crushed it, Big Mac.”
Sentiments continue from the guys and me as the rest of the team makes their way through the line, heading to the locker room, and I take the caboose, our coaches praising us as we step through the bench and go down the tunnel.
The Eagles are done, and we’ve added another win to our stats sheet.
Up next is the biggest challenge we’ll face—playoffs.
I’m exhausted when I stroll into my apartment after a drink with the guys at The Penalty Box, a yawn taking over my face as I kick my tennis shoes off and drop my backpack on the ground. I left my bedroom light on accidentally, and it acts as a beacon to my tired and sore muscles.
Silence greets me—the usual audio that fills my ears when I come home. No pets or someone special. But a clean house and kept bed.