Heath stood—two ritual taps against the boards—and vaulted over. His first stride was full commitment, all elbows and acceleration.
Clean shift. Forty-one seconds. He came off and sat two spots down, closer than before. Pulled his helmet off. Hair damp, breathing harder than me after less time.
My second shift: responsible entry and coverage requiring no adjustments.
Heath went right back at it, attacking immediately. Read their defenseman's step-up and drove low instead of drifting wide where safety lived.
It was the same Heath who leaned forward at the diner when asking me about my routines. Honest curiosity with no hesitation.
When the whistle blew, he landed next to me. Sweat beaded on his temple, tracking down to his jaw.
Rook leaned down the bench. "Good shift."
Heath nodded once. Didn't speak.
I turned back before someone noticed I'd been staring.
On the ice, our third line won a corner battle. Someone's shot rang off the iron and the crowd groaned.
Heath's knee bounced. Nervous energy.
Markel called the change. I stood and climbed over.
Won a footrace. Made a pass. Absorbed a hit. Thirty-eight seconds.
When Heath went out again, he nearly deflected a point shot.
Coach Markel watched with arms crossed and face blank.
Late in the first period, their defenseman pinched too aggressively. Julian Cross, our center, intercepted and chipped the puck forward.
Heath drove toward the net, a straight line, no wasted motion.
Cross carried wide, drew two defenders, and fired from a bad angle. The goalie kicked it out.
Bodies converged. Their defenseman crosschecked Heath in the lower back. Heath absorbed it, skates planted, stick blade flat.
The puck squirted loose. A defender's stick slashed across Heath's shins. The goalie lunged. Someone's glove caught Heath's shoulder, trying to move him.
He didn't move.
The puck hit his blade, not a shot, barely a touch. Redirected off the post, and caromed past the goalie's reach before anyone could react.
Red light. Horn.
Nineteen thousand people stood and roared.
The sound was a physical thing. It moved through the ice, up through my skates and into my chest.
Heath raised his stick briefly, reflexively. Cross grabbed his shoulders. Rook tapped his helmet.
Heath's face showed surprise more than celebration. Almost like a trespasser at midnight.
The jumbotron cycled replays. Three angles in slow motion.
The PA boomed: "IRONHAWKS GOAL SCORED BY NUMBER FORTY-EIGHT, HEATHCLIFF DONNELLY!"
During the timeout, Varga leaned over and grinned. "Hell of a tip, Donnelly!"
