And since all this happened when I was a kid, I had the time to develop strong muscle memory and instinctual responses to certain plays. My weaknesses with reading body language or anticipating less obvious cues appeared like normal shortcomings any player might have.
But the damage Merci caused . . .
I take a harder-than-necessary slapshot at Viktor.
He glares at me through the cage of his mask. “What the fuck?”
I huff and skate away, getting ready for the game to begin.
Coach Nieminen goes over strategy, reminding us of Penn State’s weaknesses. As if we don’t already know how to take these guys down. Of course, Coach Harper has Henneman and I out there together.
Fucking hate dealing with this inconsistent freshman. Why the hell did they even accept him onto the team? Shaking my head, I skate to line up for the puck drop.
The first period is fast, both teams trading possession. Henneman fumbles a pass, leaving our zone exposed. I have to lay a harder hit than necessary to break up the play, driving my shoulder into the opposing forward's chest.
On our way back to the bench, I shove my stick between his skates, sending Henneman sprawling. He scrambles to his feet, his face and neck bright red. "What the hell is your problem!"
I don't respond. Don't even look at him while I take my seat on the bench as Jackson weaves through defenders arrogantly, faking out their defensemen before sending the puck past the goalie in one smooth move.
The horn blares and the scoreboard lights up.
The next shift, Penn State wins the face-off. Their winger tries to cut inside, but I step up and crush him into the boards. The hit is clean, yet he doesn't like it. As soon as the puck is cleared, he drops his gloves.
I don't hesitate.
My first punch catches him in the jaw, snapping his head back. His helmet comes off. The second hit splits his lip. He gets in a shot to my ribs, but I barely feel it. One of the advantages of my fucked-up nervous system—pain doesn't register the same way, if at all.
By the time the refs pull me off, his face is a bloody mess. They escort me to the penalty box, and I sit, breathing hard.
I lift my hands and check my fingers. They look okay. No noticeable swelling or displacement.
Good.
The door to the penalty box opens, and the attendant hands me a water bottle. I take it without looking at him, my eyes fixed on the ice where Henneman gives up another odd-man rush.
"You're welcome," the attendant mutters.
I blink, realizing I should have said something. But the words don't always come naturally, don't form the way they should. Not until someone reminds me. “Thanks.”
The two minutes drag by, and when I'm finally released, I skate back to the bench just as the whistle blows, someone having shot the puck over the plexiglass and into the stands.
Viktor skates my way, his usual knowing look. "Hand okay?"
"It’s fine."
On the bench, I grab my gloves from Jackson and put them back on. A few minutes later, I hop over the boards for my next shift. Henneman fumbles another pass, and I grit my teeth. He's a liability out there. But Coach Harper keeps playing him, giving him chances he hasn't earned.
When the third period starts, we’re in the offensive zone. Connor passes to me and the moment the puck hits the tape on my blade, I fire off a shot. The puck soars past the goalie and into the top corner.
The goal horn blares.
“Fuck yeah!” Connor slaps my back as we skate back to center ice. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
We finish the game with a 3-1 win, and I catch the proud look Coach Harper gives Viktor before schooling his features. Must be nice having someone look at you like that.
Jackson groans as he skates up to me. "Ride home’s going to be a bitch. Why do we even have to play games when the rest of the school is on winter break?”
Viktor joins us. “Bet the ride is going to be at least six hours. Fucking New York traffic.”
