Then the puck drops and hope dies fast.
Our first touch dies on a Flames stick. They cycle clean through our zone like we're standing still. Hunter tries to jam the puck loose with a hit that makes the glass pop and shake. The puck squirts to the weak side. Our winger's late by a fullstep. I take the passing lane, stick in it, body square, shoulder burning in protest. Our team clears it.
The play's ugly but effective. Now, the chirping starts in earnest.
The Flames bench becomes a chorus of cheap praise and cheaper shots. I let it run off me like water. I remember the number in my head.
Zero retaliations. That's the goal. That's what Coach asked for.
Jett’s in the goal and I do my best to stick to him like glue. Five minutes into the first period, their center runs a lazy screen in front of Jett and clips my skate with his stick. He makes it look like an accident. He turns with wide eyes and an innocent shrug when I glare at him. I see red for one heartbeat before I swallow it down. Then I shove him once to clear the crease.
Legal. Clean. Within the rules. He winks at me like we're sharing a joke. I have the urge to bash his face in.
Next shift, he clips me again. Blade to my ankle bone. Pain shoots up my leg, sharp and bright. Without thinking, I snap my stick down on top of his with a crack that's louder than I meant it to be.
Whistle.
Slashing. God damn it.
My feet are already moving toward the penalty box before the call fully sinks in. I sit. I stare at the clock and count to one hundred in sets of four. The Flames score and the crowd groans around me. My jaw goes tight enough to make my teeth ache.
Coach Cross doesn't look at me when I come back to the bench. He looks past me. That's worse than yelling. It’ssomuch worse.
I tell myself it's fine. I build a wall inside my chest andlean on it. Next shift I keep everything simple. Glass and out. Body first. No extra shove. No retaliation.
They want discipline? I can be disciplined. I've done it my entire life.
The Flames make it hard, though.
They finish every hit with an extra push. They whisper in my ear during scrums like they're reading lines off a script written specifically to fit every sore spot I have.
"You're just a machine, Huxley."
"Too slow, Ice Man."
"He’s too fucking dumb to keep his line."
One late puck after the whistle slides near my skate. I sweep it back to the ref with more force than necessary. He points at me. Warning. I nod and skate away, focusing on the only things I can control.
We get a scoring chance in the slot and whiff it completely. The puck bounces over our forward's stick. Momentum goes, thin as paper. On the next rush, I flatten their winger at the blue line just as the puck leaves his stick.
The hit's perfect. Textbook. The crowd roars its approval.
Legal. Beautiful. I feel steady for one breath.
Then the Flames grinder skates behind me late and barks, "There he is. The Ice Man finally showed up."
I turn with my stick too wide. My hip clips him. Not hard. Ibarelymake contact.
Whistle.
Interference. Two more minutes. GodDAMNit.
My mind blanks for half a second. I shouldn't have given the ref the angle to make that call. I sit in the box again and watch the Flames score again. Two goals on my penalties in one period. Fuck. I stare at the ice through the scratched plexiglass and taste metal.
Between shifts, Jett tries to spark energy in the room.Beck bangs the boards and yells about the next shift being ours. Hunter paces and mutters threats under his breath. Decker stands near the bench talking to the rookies, trying to keep their heads in it. Coach Cross is ice at the whiteboard, drawing plays with sharp, angry strokes.
The third period's a long, slow tilt toward the wrong end of the scoreboard. We chase. The Flames keep the puck between the dots and get under our team's skin with their constant chirping. Hunter tries to drag us back with a fight that the ref kills before it begins.
