The shot came.Blocked by our defenseman.
The puck careened wildly into the air.It hit the glass behind the net and bounced back over the top of the goal—a chaotic, impossible bounce off a stanchion.
It landed in the crease behind me.
I heard the crowd gasp before I saw it.
I was down in the butterfly, facing out.The puck was behind me.The net was open.
A Amherst forward lunged for it.
The textbook said:Push off the post, rotate hips, square up.
The textbook was too slow.
I abandoned the manual.I didn’t think.I didn’t calculate.
I threw my body backward.I twisted my torso, flinging my stick arm back like I was trying to swim through the ice, engaging “paddle down” desperation mode.
Ugly.A scramble.Exactly the kind of chaos my dad hated.
The Amherst player swiped at the puck.
My stick blade slammed down on the ice, covering the goal line, a split second before the puck hit it.
Clack.
Rubber met composite.
I smothered it with my blocker, curling my body around the puck like a grenade.
The whistle blew.
For a second, silence.Then, my teammates were on me.
“No way!”Ryan screamed, hauling me up by my jersey.“No way you got that!”
The ref was reviewing it on the overhead camera.
I stood there, chest heaving, sweat stinging my eyes.I looked up at the Jumbotron.
They showed the replay.The chaotic bounce.The desperate lunge.The paddle of my stick slamming down as the puck crossed the red line.
No goal.
The crowd groaned.The “Sieve” chant died.
We killed the rest of the penalty.Regulation ended.
Shootout.
I hated shootouts.They reduced the game to a coin flip.
Coach tapped my helmet.“Patient, Carter.Wait them out.Don’t bite on the first move.”
I skated to the crease.
First shooter: Forehand, backhand, trying to open my legs.I kept the five-hole locked.Save.
