Everything was a constant.
Singular.That’s what my dad always said.Be singular.Nothing exists but the puck.
But as I snapped my helmet straps, I wasn’t thinking about being singular.
I was thinking about how much I missed the constants I couldn’t tape or strap down.The radiator.The tea.The guy who told me I didn’t have to be a robot.
Coach Harper walked in.The room died.
“Amherst plays heavy,” she said, her eyes scanning us.“They dump and chase.They crash the net.They want to make it ugly.We don’t play ugly.We play fast.”
She looked at me.
“Carter.You’re the backstop.Clean sights, no soft ones.Give us a chance to win 1-0 if we have to.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Let’s go.”
The first period was a war of attrition.
Amherst came out flying, hitting everything that moved.They didn’t try to finesse plays; they threw pucks at the net from everywhere to generate chaos.
My job was to kill the chaos.
A defenseman wound up at the point.I fought through the screen, looking over the shoulder of their massive center.I found the release point.
Thud.
The puck hit my chest protector dead center.I collapsed my upper body, smothering the rebound against my jersey before it could drop to the ice.Whistle.
“Nice pillow,” Ryan muttered, giving me a tap on the pads.
Two minutes later, a shot from the half-wall.I didn’t block it; I punched it with my blocker, directing the rebound into the corner, away from the slot.Control the chaos.
I was busy.I liked busy.It kept the brain off.
We escaped the first period 0-0.My shot count was fourteen.Decker’s count on the bench was probably zero, lucky guy.
In the second, the game opened up.Ryan sprung Javier on a breakaway.Javier, looking like death warmed over, managed a weak deke that the Amherst goalie bit on.Javier tucked it five-hole.
1-0 Frost Demons.
Amherst answered three minutes later.They were on the power play.They set up the umbrella formation.
Their point man had the puck.He faked a shot.
My instinct—my training—said to challenge him.To telescope out and cut down the angle.
I saw his eyes shift.He wasn’t looking at the net.He was looking cross-ice.To the winger waiting in the left circle.
The pass was coming.It was going to cross the center line.
The Royal Road.
Austen’s text flashed in my mind:Save percentage drops by 28 percent.Move early.
I didn’t wait for the release.I pushed off my right skate—hard.I slid across the crease in a butterfly slide, arriving at the far post a split second before the pass connected.
