On the first lap of warmups, my edges bit clean. The ice was fast—faster than home.
Pucks slid across the ice. I grabbed one, carried it through neutral and released a wrist shot from the slot. Our backup goalie tracked it into his glove.
Around me, the team worked through patterns. Rook firing slap shots from the point. Cross and Varga running give-and-go sequences.
Three rows up, an early fan held a sign: DONNELLY = CHAOS.
I focused on the ice.
The game was fast and physical.
Their fourth line came out hitting. Cross got stood up at the blue line. Varga took an elbow in the corner and spat out words that would cause my mom to reach for a wooden spoon.
Markel barked at me as I leaped over the boards.
"Net front. Stay in the paint."
Built like a refrigerator—six-three, maybe two-twenty—their defenseman leaned into me before the puck even arrived, testing whether I'd drift.
I planted. Kept my blade flat.
The puck cycled low. Cross held it along the wall, scanning options.
The defenseman cross-checked me between the shoulder blades. Not hard enough for a whistle, but a clarification.
I absorbed it. Stayed planted.
Cross fired to the point. Rook wound up.
The shot came hard and knee-high.
Bodies converged. Someone's stick slashed across my shins. The goalie shuffled right, trying to track through the traffic.
The puck caught the inside of my thigh pad. Its trajectory changed. Made a small, determined decision of its own and skittered past the goalie’s blocker before anyone could react.
Horn. Red light.
I registered what happened half a beat after everyone else.
Our bench erupted. Cross grabbed my shoulders. Rook tapped my helmet twice with his glove.
My first thought wasn't celebration. It was:That's going to look ridiculous in replay.
I skated toward the bench. Raised my stick briefly, acknowledging my teammates. The jumbotron cycled angles.
Markel nodded once when I sat. No words necessary.
Down the bench, Varga leaned over. "Hell yes, Donnelly! Way to use the whole rental car!"
"Wasn't aiming for that."
"Doesn't matter. Puck's in. Ugly goals count."
I pulled my helmet off. Three spots over, Kieran glanced at me. Eye contact for maybe half a second.
We won 3-1.
In the locker room after the game, phones started lighting up like slot machines.
