15. Shay #3
While we were down a man, he should’ve stopped that puck.
It was a shot from the blue line, and his vision wasn’t obscured.
He should’ve seen it a mile away. After they scored, he looked over at me, and I willed him to understand my thoughts.
I don’t know if he got the message, but I like to think he did because he’s been playing better since then.
He was doing that thing again where he’s relying on his predictability of other players instead of live-time reaction. I think he settles into that mindset when he’s doubting himself, which is asinine because he’s the best in the league.
Our first line takes the ice again—Alec, Cam, and Brett, along with the defensive pair, Reed and Jensen. We have possession, and Alec is bringing it into the zone. I glance over at Matt and find him locked into the game, ready to drop into position if the game turns the other way.
Our guys shift the puck around, passing it until an opening finally presents itself. Brett takes full advantage, deking out the goalie with a fake shot before bringing the puck forward and backhanding it into the net. God, he makes it look so easy; that’s the most impressive part.
We go into a TV time-out while the ice crew shovels the rink, removing all the snowy buildup from where it’s gathered in and around the net, and in the corners. Matt stays by his crease, drinking from his bottle and bopping along to the music playing through the speakers.
The break ends, and the game resets at center ice because we scored. Jensen takes the face-off, winning it and dishing it back to Brett. Brett passes it to Cam, but it’s quickly intercepted by Montreal’s star forward, who picks up speed, heading into the zone.
Matt’s in position, ready and waiting while adjusting to each minute shift in the body language of his opponent.
You’ve got this.
It’s just a breakaway. One of many that he’s stopped. This will be no different.
“Come on,” I whisper under my breath.
Andy’s head turns to look in my direction. I can see his smile in my peripheral vision, and I don’t need him to say his thoughts to know what he’s likely thinking. He’s happy to see me so excited about the game again.
The Montreal player pulls his stick back, only five feet from Matt. But before he can get his shot off, Cam’s stick trips him up, and he goes flying forward, crashing straight into Matt. My heart drops, and it only falls further when everybody on the ice collides into the pile, right on top of him.
My ears start ringing, the noise of the arena blending into the piercing tone, as my vision spots.
Oh God, he’s going to get hurt. He’s going to get cut and lose everything. Just like I did.
My breathing is erratic, picking up pace by the second, and there’s nothing I can do as pure unbridled panic and fear take over, racing to the beat of my heart. Andy grabs my shoulder, but I ignore him completely, unable to take my gaze off of Matt.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, wondering why no one has moved yet.
They need to get to him.
This is the moment, the moment in his life that ruins everything. He’s going to be ruined after this. He won’t be able to catch a puck. He won’t be able to hold his blocker correctly. Everything is going to change.
He’s not going to be on this team. He’s not going to be a Nighthawks player who is remembered for winning the Stanley Cup. He’s going to be remembered as one of the greatest goalie injuries of all time, his worth measured by a single moment.
Worse than that, his cut could go deeper. It could hit his artery, and he could bleed out in seconds.
No one is worried. They don’t even care if he’s okay, not like I do. I can’t let him end up like me.
“Matt! Get up! Matt!” I try lunging forward, moving toward the ice, but I only manage to get a single step in before an arm goes around my waist. “Stop! You need to check on him! He could be bleeding! Hurry!”
A thousand people talk to me at once, but I can’t hear a single thing from any of them. Players start getting out of the dogpile, skating off while their heads all snap up at me.
He’s down on his stomach—oh God—just like I was. Tears burst from my eyes, every pent-up emotion exploding at once.
Get up. Please get up.
My feet are suddenly lifted off of the ground, and I’m pulled backward, but I grab on to the wall beside me without peeling my gaze from the ice.
“Matt! Matt!” I’m screaming his name like a feral animal, my voice hoarse and breaking. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. But I just need to know he’s okay. “Matt! Please!”
His head snaps up, and he shoves the player off of him, bouncing to his feet. He takes all but a second to look at me before doing the one single thing in the world that could ease my worry. Shaking his gloves off his hands, he raises his arms and gives me two thumbs-up.
My heart stops, breath halting in my airway. How—how did he know? …
He pumps the thumbs-up in the air, relaxing me enough for my hand to fall from the wall. My hyperventilating returns, but a calmness has started fighting back, a tsunami of embarrassment close behind in its tracks.
Oh God, what the hell did I just do?