Chapter 58
RAKE
As soon as I hit the ice, the energy of the crowd fills me and I play like my life depends on it. There is no one but the team, our opponents, and the ice.
This is one game where there’s no room for error. We’re fighting for every inch of ice we get, and the other team is matching our intensity. I’m confident we’ll beat these guys tonight, but in the end, both teams will have played epic hockey.
Every sprint is at top speed, and every check into the boards fires up our determination. The elusive goal seems barely out of reach, but we’re playing smart, with no leeway to spare. At all.
By the time second period rolls around, my muscles are starting to burn.
But I can push through that. I have always been able to, and tonight is no exception.
The game’s pace accelerates, and the sound of the puck hitting our sticks and the ice spraying as we cut sharp turns are pretty much all I hear through my intense concentration.
By the third period, everyone’s fatigue is real, but again, we push. We always do. We’re operating on years of training and instinct, and a nearly uncontrollable desire to come out on top, driven by what are probably unhealthy levels of adrenaline.
That’s just the way it is.
The decision to shoot or pass happens in a microscopic amount of time and when the ice opens up in front of Tyler, years of calculating angles, distances, and probabilities guide him.
I’ve been where he is before and know how everything else fades into the background.
He focuses, and with all the power he has, sends the puck flying toward the goal.
I track it, like everyone in the stadium is, and by God it crosses the line as if it was meant to, like it was always predestined and skating our asses off for three periods finally earned us the privilege.
The goal horn blares and I let myself hear the crowd go wild.
Fist bumps, hugs, and shouts are directed toward my buddy, and in seconds, he’s already heading to his position in preparation for a new face-off, followed by the rest of us.
With a goal under our belt, and minutes left in the game, we’re ready to do anything to keep our advantage.
But something goes wrong. Someone—I’m not sure whether from my team or the other—slams into me and I go down in a bad twist that feels different from the usual hit.
The realization that I have a problem before I even stop sliding is clear by the lightning bolt of pain that seizes my left knee.
My stick goes flying across the ice, and after rolling over, I push myself up, only to be unable to get off my knees.
Fuck me.
I roll to my side, holding my leg, and the game continues to scream around me until the trainer comes and drags me off the ice.