Dashes of red flash across my vision as Remington sets up their offense. They send one of their tallest girls down right in front of the crease, and Maria comes in to try to help defend.I stay low and bop behind the two of them, trying to always maintain a line of vision on the puck.
Two of our players get drawn in on one of theirs, and a quick pass leaves their left wing wide open. She shoots the moment the puck crosses in front of her, but I was ready too. It’s a clean shot heading right to my left, and I throw my entire body to that side, and the puck ricochets off my pads.
The crowd and the Huskies bench roar at the block, but I don’t let it distract me. Not when I have a rebound to anticipate. And when it comes off the skater they put right in front of the net, I’m ready for it too. I scoop the shot with my glove and stop the play.
I can hear Luke’s voice in my head.You can control the pace of the game.It’s something he drilled into me over and over this past season. It’s helpful to keep a level head and my natural inclination toward feeding the frenzy at bay.
One of the refs glides over to take the puck from me to reset. It allows everyone a collective breath, and I spare the quickest of glances toward the bench. My eyes immediately find his, and he gives me a small smile. That little sign of approval just adds fuel to my fire.
It’s a nasty, aggressive first period, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the buzzer sounds. The walk to the locker room is filled with fevered words of anger directed toward Remington. Charlotte is holding her left wrist gingerly, but anytime one of the coaches looks in her direction, she drops it.
This late in the season, many of us are already banged up quite a bit and pushing through the pain. But the first twenty minutes doesn’t seem to have done a lot of those repressed injuries well as I spy more than a handful of my teammates down pain relievers the moment they step into the locker room.
Coach Maver storms in, forehead creased with a frown. “You should all feel very lucky that we made it out of that period 0–0 and be thanking your goalie for that.”
My cheeks heat as the attention shifts to me momentarily. I spray water down the back of my neck to distract myself.
“Letting them have sixteen shots on goal already? Four of those during power plays? I said I don’t want stupid penalties, and yet a cross checking and tripping for you two?” She glares at Austen and Aubrey. Austen at least has the right frame of mind to look remorseful, but Aubrey’s eyes blaze.
“You should hear the shit they’re saying?—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Coach Maver states. “It doesn’t fucking matter. Tune it out. They want you to get angry. You especially.” She points her finger at Aubrey, and her shoulders rise to her ears. “They know they have a strong power play, so they want to get in that position. Do. Not. Let. Them.”
Aubrey opens her mouth to argue, but one look from Coach Maver has her shutting up.
“Kilcrease had to work overtime that period to compensate for those penalties, along with the rest of your teammates who are already out there getting banged up and exhausted, and then have to play a man down. I want that to stop in this next twenty, understood?”
A collective, “Yes, Coach,” rings out from the team.
With that, she leaves and small talk rises around the room until it’s time to get back out there. I keep any interaction to a minimum, wanting to keep my head in the game. I don’t care that Aubrey and Austen took penalties. I don’t even care that they got sixteen shots on goal.
I just care about every single opportunity I have to maintain their score of zero and being a backbone out there for the team. Even Luke fades into my periphery as I pass him in the tunnel back to the ice. He doesn’t approach, knowing I’ve sunk deepinto the place I need to be in to perform, in a way that only another goalie would understand.
We finally get a breakthrough a few minutes into the second period. One of Remington’s players smashes Jordyn into the boards when she didn’t even touch the puck in the entire possession and takes a penalty for unnecessary roughness.
It gives me a moment to catch my breath at the other end of the ice after they were in the zone for almost two minutes straight.
On the power play, Austen is able to score and bring us up 1–0. The crowd and bench both erupt, and I slam my own stick on the ice in celebration. The line on the ice pile on her, their smiles are magnified on the screens above.
It’s only one, but it’s the first goal of the game and a major momentum shift for us.
We win the face-off but quickly turn the puck over. Remington once again gets in the zone, and I try to block out the chirping in front of the net between their player and Maria, but it’s growing increasingly loud. Their elbows start digging a little harder into one another, blades scraping, and it might not be long until it comes to blows.
In fact, looking around, it looks like there’s a possibility of a fight almost everywhere you look. So many anger-flushed cheeks and scathing looks being tossed around as a whistle blows when the puck goes up into the netting.
Remington’s captain engages with Charlotte, and it takes me by surprise to see even her spitting something back fiercely. Play resumes and Charlotte gets possession and scoops it to the other end of the ice, wrapping around the boards as the lines switch. Our first line comes back onto the ice and instantly Aubrey gets into the mix, trying to get the puck, but Remington grabs it.
The Remington first liner accelerates down the ice as Aubrey battles with her the whole way. Their sticks slap against eachother, trying to gain possession. The puck skitters along with them and as they show no signs of slowing down, I fall back in the crease a little bit.
I wait, I watch, anticipation building as neither backs down. I can see the sneer on Aubrey’s face, and while I can’t hear them, the Remington player’s mouth moves with heated words.
My knees drop, thighs burning with the lowered stance as I anticipate a shot. They get closer and closer, and I wait for the shot to come, but it doesn’t. The puck gets completely lost.
Where did it?—
I don’t feel the impact right away. It’s almost like I’m suspended in air, light as a feather, for a few glorious moments before realization hits. I’m not on my feet anymore. I’m not even in the crease anymore.
No.
