During intermission, Coach announced he was changing up the lines for the next period.
“Abashev, Wils, and Cams,” he said, “you’re top line.”
The guys who were getting bumped down didn’t even look upset or embarrassed. If anything, they all looked relieved. I got it—everyone had bad nights, and sometimes getting temporarily demoted was the best thing for the whole team.
Coach didn’t ream them out, either. He probably knew he didn’t need to. They weren’t stupid—they knew they didn’t have it together tonight. He did have a quiet conversation with the three of them while we were all hydrating and resting, but he seemed calm. I suspected it was less “what the fuck is wrong with you three?” and “you need to get your heads out of your asses,” and more, “I know you guys can do better” and “just focus during your shifts next period.”
I liked that about Coach. This wasn’t a youth team, and we were all expected to play like the pros that we were, but even at the NAPH level, bad nights happened. Some coaches—including this one—seemed to know when screaming at someone was the most effective approach, and when it was better to address it calmly.
It worked, too. When that line was out for one of their shifts early in the second period, they were crisper and more focusedthis time. Hell, they turned it around enough that they probably could have continued as the top line for the rest of the game.
Coach kept that pressure off them, though, and my line became the top line.
I felt for the guys who were having a shit night, but I couldn’t lie—I was glad to be getting off the damn bench. I even found myself being less careful of my knee. I still didn’t push myself quite to full speed, but all thoughts of babying my leg were gone.
As we set up for a faceoff, the opposing center—who looked about fourteen—stared at me with wide eyes. I grinned, and I could almost hear something shorting out in his starstruck brain.
Hey, if he was going to play in the big leagues, he was going to have to go up against much bigger stars than me. Might as well learn to deal with it now.
I won the faceoff more easily than I should have—the kid’s coach would probably have words with him over that later. Not my problem.
I whipped the puck to Cams, who snapped it to Pettersson, one of our defensemen. We cycled the puck, closing in on the net as we wore their skaters down. Across the zone from me, Taylor was creeping toward the faceoff dot, away from the goal but clearly setting himself up for a scoring chance. Two of San Francisco’s skaters were zeroed in on him. There was a defenseman on me, but he didn’t seem to notice that every time I released the puck, I’d inch myself closer to the crease.
My skates were nearly in the blue paint when I locked eyes with Petters, who was close to the neutral zone. Taylor had the puck and was conspicuously positioning himself to fire on goal, which had the attention of most of the opposing skaters.
I nodded to Petters. He smacked his stick on the ice to call for the puck, and without even looking, Taylor passed it to him. Theopposing skaters weren’t expecting that, and in the split second it took for them to change their tactics, Petters passed to me.
I tipped it into the back of the goal before anyone even knew what was happening.
I held up my stick and shouted, the elation nearly knocking me off my feet. PHL or not, I wasback. I was playing, and I’d scored. Fuck yeah.
The crowd was smaller than an NAPH crowd, but they were still loud and raucous. My four teammates hugged me and smacked my helmet and pads.
“Nice one, Chevy!” Cams said.
I grinned and fist-bumped with them. Then I grabbed Petters around the shoulders. “Perfect assist!”
The kid blushed brighter than the goal light.
When I met Taylor’s gaze and saw that brilliant smile, I wondered if I was blushing too.
Then we were off to the bench for fist bumps with the rest of the team before we took our seats and let the next line go out.
As I was sitting down, a subtle twinge in my knee cut through the elation of scoring.
You’re coming back from an injury, Abashev. Don’t push it.
Except we were still down by two. The game was 3-1 now, with thirty-five minutes left to play. We weren’t digging ourselves out of this hole unless it was all hands on deck.
My knee would just have to deal with it.
The next two shifts only racked up a single shot on goal between them, but they successfully kept the other team hemmed into their defensive zone. Not only could San Francisco not hold possession long enough to break out, they couldn’t peel off for a line change either. One of the defensemen did manage to get to the bench, but the other D-man and the three forwards were fucked.
When they finally did get the puck headed toward our end, Brown got in the way of the player who’d been meant to catch the pass into the neutral zone. He didn’t make contact, so no interference call, but he kept him from getting to the puck, which went sailing down to the other end.
I could almost feel the “goddammit” coming off the skaters when the ref blew the whistle for icing. They were all completely gassed, but they were still stuck on the ice. Their only chance to rest was the handful of seconds it took for us to swap out all five of our skaters for fresh bodies.
As we set up for this faceoff, the opposing center was dripping with sweat and breathing so hard he was shaking. His visor was fogged up around the edges, and he looked absolutely miserable.
