The Amherst winger one-timed it.A perfect shot, destined for the open net.
Thud.
The puck slammed into the NRU logo on my chest.I was already square.
The crowd gasped.The winger looked at the ceiling in disbelief.
“How did you get there?”their center muttered as he skated by.
I flipped the puck to the ref.“I took the Green Line.”
I tapped my posts.
Constant.
Amherst eventually scored on a scramble goal that bounced off three skates—physics is cruel like that—but that cross-ice save?That stayed with me.
Third period.1-1.Four minutes left.
My legs were burning.My shoulder was starting to throb with a dull, persistent ache every time I lifted my glove.
Amherst was pressing.They sensed blood.
Our defenseman took a tripping penalty.Two minutes in the box.
Thirty seconds later, Ryan slashed a guy’s stick in half.Broken stick, automatic penalty.
5-on-3.Two minutes left in the game.
The Amherst coach called a timeout.
I skated to the bench.Coach looked intense, drawing lines on her whiteboard with violent strokes.
“Kill box,” she ordered.“Collapse the triangle.Let them shoot from the outside.Carter sees everything.Do not screen your goalie.”
“We got you, Monk,” Ryan said, breathless, sweat dripping off his nose.
“Clear the garbage,” I said.“If I make the first save, you have to win the battle for the second.”
I skated back to the net.The crowd was deafening.It felt like the roof was coming down.
Faceoff won by Amherst.
They set up the umbrella.Pass to the point.Pass to the wing.
One-timer—bam.
I didn’t have time to react.I squared up.I took it off the mask.My ears rang, a high-pitched whine, but the puck dropped straight down into my glove.Whistle.
“Nice face save,” the ref muttered.
“Thanks.I use it for modeling.”
Faceoff again.Amherst won it.
They worked it low.Pass across the Royal Road—the imaginary line down the center of the ice.That forces the goalie to move laterally.
I slid across—butterfly slide, digging my edge in to stop momentum.I sealed the post.
