Chapter 17 #2
I close them around the top of the boards and let the gloves take the movement.
Restraint does not feel clean. It feels like leaving an insult unanswered while several thousand people decide what that means about me.
Gordon looks down the bench. “Michael.”
I turn.
“Where was the next play?”
“Through Patrick.”
“What did you do?”
“Joined it.”
He nods and sends the next line over the boards.
The game stays tied through the opening stretch. Our defense allows a controlled entry, and the opponent builds possession low in the zone. Lucas tracks the puck behind two bodies while I come over the boards on a change.
The opposing center carries from the corner toward the middle. Our defenseman contains the first route, but the winger drifts into the weak-side lane with his blade open.
I see Lucas’s head turn.
The puck carrier sees it too.
I cross the lane before the pass leaves his stick. My blade reaches the ice flat enough that the puck strikes it and changes direction. It does not clear. It lands near the bottom of the circle, where another attacker moves toward the rebound.
I could chase him.
Lucas has the first shot. The greater danger is the open lane behind me.
I stay inside, take away the return pass, and let our defenseman pressure the loose puck. The attacker shoots from the poor angle. Lucas blocks it with his pad, and the rebound drops into the space I kept.
I sweep the puck along the boards and out.
The crowd reacts to the clear because the pressure ends. Lucas taps his stick against the ice behind me as I turn through the neutral zone.
No one watching sees the pass that did not happen. Lucas does.
At the bench, he leans over the top of the boards while play continues. “That’s the lane.”
“I know.”
“You stayed for the rebound.”
“I know that too.”
“Good. I enjoy being heard.”
Nicholas sits beside me. “He says, after communicating entirely through stick percussion.”
“It’s a specialized language,” Lucas says.
Our first penalty comes from an offensive-zone trip. Gordon calls the starting penalty-kill pair, then looks down the bench before the faceoff.
“Michael, secondary unit. Left-side lane. Clear first chance. No pursuit beyond the red line.”
I stand.
The first unit kills the opening portion before the opponent gains a clean entry and forces a whistle. Gordon sends me over with Vincent.
We line up in the defensive zone. Their power play spreads high, with one forward positioned near Lucas and another moving through the middle.
The faceoff goes to their defenseman.
I hold the top of the circle rather than chasing the puck toward the blue line. The defenseman shifts it laterally, forcing our formation to move. Their winger receives on my side and looks toward the seam.
I place my blade in the passing lane.
He waits for me to turn my stick, then changes the angle and shoots through my legs.
The puck strikes the inside of my left thigh above the pad line.
Pain arrives bright and immediate. My knee buckles, but the puck drops in front of me instead of reaching Lucas.
The winger closes for it.
I get my stick beneath the puck and move it along the boards. His shoulder catches the side of my chest after the clear. The contact is legal and hard enough to carry us both into the wall.
The puck leaves the zone.
The hitter stays close, waiting to see whether I will turn the collision into something else.
I push off the boards and skate toward the bench.
“Change,” Vincent calls.
I leave.
Irene meets me behind the bench before I sit fully. “Thigh or knee?”
“Thigh.”
“Any instability?”
“No.”
“Numbness?”
“No. Direct impact.”
She presses near the edge of the equipment while I flex the leg. The muscle protests but holds.
“Stay available for reassessment,” she says. “Report any change.”
“Okay.”
The penalty expires during the next clear. The opponent’s player skates past our bench on his way to change and taps his own thigh with his stick.
“Still got a body under all that training,” he says.
My leg throbs where the puck struck. The contact against the boards remains in my chest. I want another shift before Irene decides the swelling needs more time.
I do not answer him.
Gordon sends another line.
I sit because that is the current instruction.
Irene checks the leg again during a stoppage and clears me to continue. No one treats taking the shot as proof of toughness. It is one penalty-kill action followed by an ordinary medical decision.
My next two shifts are quieter. One ends with a clean exit. The other exposes a late recovery when I commit too far below the puck. The opponent gains the zone behind me, and Lucas has to cover a low shot for a whistle.
At the bench, Gordon draws the route on the small board.
“You chased the first touch,” he says.
“I thought I could recover possession.”
“You could not. What was still available?”
“Middle recovery.”
“Use it next time.”
He wipes the board clean and turns to the line going over the wall. The mistake does not erase the earlier shifts. The earlier shifts do not excuse it.
The game remains close entering the later portion. Both teams have scored once. The opponent increases pressure along Patrick’s side, finishing every permitted contact and adding small ones after officials look away.
Patrick receives a pass near the wall and turns through the first defender. A second opponent closes from the middle.
I call, “Inside.”
Patrick moves the puck ahead before the contact arrives. The opponent drives through him anyway, shoulder catching Patrick high in the chest but within the legal area.
Patrick stays upright.
The puck continues toward the corner.
I am closer to the hitter than to the puck. Every old route presents itself.
Patrick asked for position and communication.
I take the route toward the puck.
The hitter follows because he expects me to turn. When I do not, he reaches the corner first and tries to collect possession along the boards.
I arrive through his hands, not his head.
My shoulder meets his upper arm within the legal route. My skates remain under me. The check separates him from the puck without driving him after possession is gone.
Patrick comes through the open space and collects it.
“Middle,” I call.
He turns away from the wall and feeds our defenseman high.
The hitter recovers behind me. His stick catches the back of my leg once, then his forearm presses between my shoulder blades. The puck moves across the blue line while he continues.
I stay between him and Patrick.
Our defenseman shoots low. The puck deflects wide.
The whistle sounds for an offside touch as the play resets beyond the line.
I release the opponent immediately.
He does not release me.
Both gloves hit my chest and shove. My skates slide backward. The crowd rises at the movement.
The official closes from the side.
The opponent steps closer. “Go on. Show them you’re still useful.”
My hands close inside the gloves.
His face is within reach. The official has not arrived between us yet. One push would give me room to drop the right glove. One punch would answer the entire arena.
The urge is fast.
The choice keeps going.
I look at the official. I spread my hands away from the opponent’s body and leave both gloves on.
The player shoves me again, higher this time. My head moves back from the force.
I do not raise my stick.
The official’s arm goes up. Another skates between us and drives the opponent toward the penalty box.
The opposing bench protests. Their player points at me as if refusal is an offense the official failed to call.
I skate toward our bench.
The crowd noise changes. Some people want the fight they thought was coming. Others recognize the penalty. The sound does not become pure approval.
Patrick reaches the bench beside me. “You good?”
“Yes.”
“You left me the puck.”
“You asked for it.”
“I did.”
Gordon does not touch me when I reach the gate. He points at the power-play group preparing to go over.
“Penalty drawn,” he says. “Stay available.”
Nicholas leans close while the official announces the call. “That was aggressively competitive.”
“He shoved me twice.”
“And received a penalty for the second one because you did not donate a matching infraction. Very selfish of you.”
I sit and look at the scoreboard while our power play sets up.
The advantage exists because I kept the gloves on. It will matter only if we use it.
Our first unit spends the opening sequence moving the puck around the perimeter without creating a clean shooting lane. The opponent clears. Gordon watches the next entry fail near the blue line and calls the second group.
He points at me.
“Net-front support, then recover the wall. Keep possession alive.”
I go over with Vincent, Patrick, Nicholas, and one defenseman.
The puck begins behind our net. Patrick carries through the middle while I angle across the neutral zone to push the penalty killers backward. We enter cleanly.
Patrick moves the puck to the right side. I take position near the top of the crease, outside the goalie’s body and inside the defenseman’s stick.
The defenseman leans into my back. I hold the space without turning the contest into a separate fight.
The puck moves high. Vincent shoots, and the goalie blocks it toward the left wall.
I leave the net-front position before the penalty killer can reach the rebound. My first touch keeps the puck inside the blue line but sends it along the boards rather than toward the middle.
The nearest opponent closes.
I protect the puck with my hips and look behind the pressure. Patrick is low. Nicholas is high enough to receive. Vincent circles into the space the defender has left.
The opponent presses harder, expecting me to reverse into contact.
I slide the puck beneath his stick to Patrick.
Patrick moves it immediately toward the weak side. The penalty killers shift toward him, and Vincent drives down from the point, pulling one defender away from Nicholas.
Nicholas reaches Patrick’s pass from the weak side and puts it in before the goalie can recover.
The goal horn starts before I clear the front of the net.