Chapter 15 #2
“Kill box,” she ordered. “Collapse the triangle. Let them shoot from the outside. Carter sees everything. Do not screen your goalie.”
“We got you, Monk,” Ryan said, breathless, sweat dripping off his nose.
“Clear the garbage,” I said. “If I make the first save, you have to win the battle for the second.”
I skated back to the net. The crowd was deafening. It felt like the roof was coming down.
Faceoff won by Amherst.
They set up the umbrella. Pass to the point. Pass to the wing.
One-timer—bam.
I didn’t have time to react. I squared up. I took it off the mask. My ears rang, a high-pitched whine, but the puck dropped straight down into my glove. Whistle.
“Nice face save,” the ref muttered.
“Thanks. I use it for modeling.”
Faceoff again. Amherst won it.
They worked it low. Pass across the Royal Road—the imaginary line down the center of the ice. That forces the goalie to move laterally.
I slid across—butterfly slide, digging my edge in to stop momentum. I sealed the post.
The shot came. Blocked by our defenseman.
The puck careened wildly into the air. It hit the glass behind the net and bounced back over the top of the goal—a chaotic, impossible bounce off a stanchion.
It landed in the crease behind me.
I heard the crowd gasp before I saw it.
I was down in the butterfly, facing out. The puck was behind me. The net was open.
A Amherst forward lunged for it.
The textbook said: Push off the post, rotate hips, square up.
The textbook was too slow.
I abandoned the manual. I didn’t think. I didn’t calculate.
I threw my body backward. I twisted my torso, flinging my stick arm back like I was trying to swim through the ice, engaging “paddle down” desperation mode.
Ugly. A scramble. Exactly the kind of chaos my dad hated.
The Amherst player swiped at the puck.
My stick blade slammed down on the ice, covering the goal line, a split second before the puck hit it.
Clack.
Rubber met composite.
I smothered it with my blocker, curling my body around the puck like a grenade.
The whistle blew.
For a second, silence. Then, my teammates were on me.
“No way!” Ryan screamed, hauling me up by my jersey. “No way you got that!”
The ref was reviewing it on the overhead camera.
I stood there, chest heaving, sweat stinging my eyes. I looked up at the Jumbotron.
They showed the replay. The chaotic bounce. The desperate lunge. The paddle of my stick slamming down as the puck crossed the red line.
No goal.
The crowd groaned. The “Sieve” chant died.
We killed the rest of the penalty. Regulation ended.
Shootout.
I hated shootouts. They reduced the game to a coin flip.
Coach tapped my helmet. “Patient, Carter. Wait them out. Don’t bite on the first move.”
I skated to the crease.
First shooter: Forehand, backhand, trying to open my legs. I kept the five-hole locked. Save.
Second shooter: Tried to go high glove. I flashed the leather. Save.
Third shooter: Their captain. He came in slow, weaving. He faked a shot, froze me, and tried to tuck it around my pad.
I stretched out, extending my leg in a split, the toe of my skate catching the puck enough to deflect it into the post.
Ping. Out.
Javier, miraculously, scored on his turn—an ugly, wobbling shot that fooled their goalie purely by accident.
Final: 2-1 NRU.
The locker room was a sensory overload.
Music blasted—something with a bass line that shook the benches. Equipment was everywhere: skates scattered on the rubber floor, wet jerseys hanging from hooks, tape balls flying through the air.
“Three stars!” Ryan yelled, standing on a bench in his compression shorts. “Third star, me, for the moral support. Second star, Morales, for scoring while technically dead. First star…”
He pointed a composite stick at me.
“The Monk! For robbing that kid of his dignity in the third!”
The guys roared, throwing towels and empty water bottles at me.
I sat in my stall, exhausted. My shoulder throbbed. My knees ached. I started the process of peeling off the gear.
Leg pads first. My hands shook as I undid the buckles.
“Hey,” Javier said, slumping down next to me. He looked better now that the adrenaline had peaked. “That save? The paddle down?”
“Yeah?”
“That was filth. Pure filth.”
“It was lucky,” I said, unlacing my skates. “Bounce was weird.”
“Luck is preparation meeting opportunity,” Ryan said, sliding down next to me. “Or whatever the hell your math boyfriend would say.”
I froze. The room was loud, but I heard that clearly.
“My what?”
Ryan grinned, unrepentant. “Please. You check your phone every thirty seconds. You’re quoting him in the intermission. You guys are vibrating on a frequency only dogs can hear.”
I looked down at my skate, heat rising in my neck. “He’s helping me with accounting.”
“Uh-huh,” Ryan said. He clapped my shoulder. “Well, tell the accountant that his variables worked tonight. We got the dub.”
I pulled my phone out of my bag.
One text waiting.
Austen: Data confirms victory. 38 saves?
I smiled, and this time, I didn’t try to hide it from the room.
“Yeah,” I said to Ryan. “We got the dub.”
The bus ride home was a party.
Ryan had smuggled a speaker on board. The rookies were singing. Even Coach Harper was smiling in the front row.
I sat in my seat, icing my shoulder with a bag Dalton had given me. I was exhausted. Every muscle felt like it had been pulled apart and put back together wrong.
But I felt light.
I pulled out my phone. One a.m.
Me: Geometry held up.
Me: Nice call on the green line. Win is on you.
Austen: Glad I could assist.
Austen: Rest required. Room is quiet. Valve is silent.
Me: See you in the morning.
Austen: I’ll be here.
I smiled at the screen, letting the blue light wash over me in the dark bus.
I looked out the window. The highway was empty, a ribbon of road leading back to Cold Harbor. I closed my eyes and let the bus carry me home.