Blooper Reel
Lilith: “Okay, Skye, you’re up front and ready. It’s tense. The score is tight. Paige is in the zone, brick wall. We need that focused, lethal energy from you.”
Skye: “Tight brick wall. Got it.”
I’m watching the other team shoot puck after puck toward Paige while I’m being held hostage by the other team up against the wall. It’s the third period, one minute left. A one-goal lead. This is where legends are made.
Paige is a fortress in the crease. She’s already stopped two blistering slapshots this shift, her movements sharp, and her focus absolute. The opposing center winds up for another one. I move out around the opposing team and head straight toward our net.
Here it comes.
And then, in my peripheral vision, I see it.
On our defensive line, Rissa, who is supposed to be covering the point, somehow manages to catch the toe of her skate in a divot that shouldn’t exist. Her legs shoot out from under her in a perfect, cartoonish banana-peel slip.
She goes down hard, spinning in a slow, graceful circle on her back like a stranded turtle, her stick sliding away.
Paige, in the middle of tracking the incoming shot, glances over. I see the exact moment her professional composure shatters.
Her eyes widen, her mask tilts, and she fucking snorts. The puck is already in flight, a blur heading toward the top corner. Paige, now giggling uncontrollably behind her cage, throws a glove up in a half-hearted swipe. She misses by a mile.
CLANG!
The puck hits the crossbar and bounces away. The sound seems to startle Paige out of her giggle fit for half a second. But then, she looks back at Rissa, who is now attempting to get up, only to slip again and slide gently toward the boards.
Paige loses it completely.
Instead of resetting, she drops her stick, pushes off with her skates, and launches herself into a full, celebratory belly-slide across the ice. As she slides, she starts singing, her voice muffled by her mask but perfectly recognizable to anyone who knows her:
“SU-PER-MAN THAT HOOOEEE!” she belts out, off-key and joyous with her arms outstretched like she’s flying. Her goalie pads make a swish-thump as she glides.
Along the wall, I have buried my face in my hands, and my shoulders are shaking.
I am no longer a lethal hockey machine. I am a woman trying desperately not to pee her pants laughing.
My goalie, our last line of defense, is currently performing karaoke on ice during a semifinal game at the Olympics.
Coach Madsen is screaming something that gets lost in the noise of the arena.
Lilith: “Cuuuuuut! Everyone, take five. And someone get me a shot of something strong.”