Deliberation
~~Drakos~~
I haven’t felt nerves like this since my rookie season.
This is it. Win and advance, lose and start my summer vacation.
I glance around the locker room at all the serious faces. I like what I see and select some appropriate music for the upcoming battle, blasting it to the rafters as I always do.
The music calms my nerves somewhat, and I lean back, close my eyes, and visualize…
Aria.
My eyelids pop open.
What the fuck?
I’m visualizing Aria?
I mean, she looks fantastic in my imagination, but she’d look even better in my bed.
Okay, that’s enough.
Now is not the time to be thinking about Aria.
Hockey and only hockey needs to be my focus.
I close my eyes again and concentrate on feeling the ice under my blades, hearing the swish-swish as I move across the ice, and seeing the puck sailing toward the net, while the lamp lights.
An hour later I’m on the ice waiting for the puck drop. I wonder if Noah and Aria are watching. Here I go again, losing my focus. Pissed at myself, I force my full attention on the game. Once the puck’s in play, I forget about all else. The intensity is off the charts, and opposing players are brutal with their hits. We step up as a team and give back what they’re giving us. They draw blood first, and we go into the first intermission down zero to one.
I circle the room, slapping guys on the back and shouting words of encouragement. “We can do this. We’ve got this. Don’t let up. Be relentless.”
As I gaze into the battle-weary eyes of my teammates, I see a fire burning there that no amount of exhaustion can destroy. We go back out there for the second period, and it’s a grind, neither team giving up a score.
Late into the third period, Colorado still leads by one. Their goalie is hot, and he’s letting nothing through. Talk about a brick wall. Roman isn’t any slouch either. He’s only given up one goal, and that wasn’t necessarily his fault.
We’re running out of time. I study the faces around me. Each one reflects how I feel. We can’t let this game slip through our fingers. We have five minutes to score twice. Of course, there’s overtime, but as gassed as we all are, we’d be better off to avoid extra minutes. Colorado is just as exhausted as we are. Everyone’s running on fumes, digging deep, and finding another level we didn’t know we had.
The third line takes the ice with three minutes left. Camden steals the puck while Colorado is still changing lines and races down the ice. I leap to my feet with every one of my teammates on the bench. We yell at him to shoot the puck.
“Shoot the fucking puck!” I’m shouting at the top of my lungs. Their defenders are strides behind him. The only person standing between him and the net is the goalie. Camden doesn’t hesitate or slow down. He barrels toward the net and does an almost impossible change of direction, leaving the goalie leaning the wrong way. He shoots, and he scores.
Pandemonium erupts on the bench. The Icehawks faithful in the stands are surprisingly loud. We’re tied.
The clock ticks down. Neither side gives an inch. While we’re playing hard, we’re also careful to avoid a penalty, which could mean certain death for our playoff run.
I leap over the boards onto the ice for my shift. It’s my line’s last chance to take this one in regulation. Every inch of my body feels as if it weighs ten times more than it did when the game started. I can’t give in to exhaustion. I have to fight hard and forget about my body’s complaints.
I move down the ice with my linemates. Colorado has the puck. Kirby and Wild are on it. I’m there, too, attempting to steal the puck without tripping the guy. He whirls away from me and shoots. It bounces harmlessly off Kirby’s shoulder and straight to Dash. I pivot and streak toward the other end, hoping for a stretch pass. I get one. It’s a perfect pass, and lands right on the curve of my stick. Despite my distance from the net, I turn and shoot in one fluid movement. The puck rockets through the air, and I follow it in for a possible rebound.
A second later the lamp lights, the game ends, and we advance to the next round of the playoffs.
* * *
Our plane lands in Portland about twelve thirty at night. The flight had been boisterous despite our exhaustion, though we were pretty quiet during the last hour.
Once we land, Kirby heads home, but I’m too restless to go to bed. It’s not all that late. The single guys are heading to a club and invite me along. I don’t commit but let them know they might see me there.
