The zeb drops the biscuit in our defensive zone, and thankfully –fucking thankfully– Peck wins the faceoff against the Camelot Cheetahs.
Unfortunately, that’s where my gratitude ends.
One of their larger defensemen invades the space around the crease not only blocking my ability to successfully track the puck but forcing the Goonie Tunes to invade the area as well in hopes of providing the coverage needed.
And itisneeded.
I’ve already let two in.
Fucking. Two.
I can’t afford a third.
Not today.
Especiallynot today.
This is the last game Coach will have seen me playbeforehe meets me as her boyfriend, meanin’ I needthiswin.
The last thing I want is him thinkin’ about what an embarrassment I am on his team and lettin’ that transfer into what an embarrassment I must be as a boyfriend.
Spotting the tiny black dot coming my way, has me dropping to my knees and sliding in the same direction it seems to be soaring; however, its trajectory is abruptly shifted by someone else’s stick.
And then someone else’s.
And then someone else’s again.
Each pass steers my padded frame between the posts, vision locked onto the tiny object, stare continuously swimming past a sea of thighs and ass and sticks in order to anticipate where to get my blocker or glove or slice my stick.
My teams steady inability to get it past the blue line repeatedly twists my nerves.
Causes me to clamp down on my mouthguard.
Weave and dodge.
Dodge and duck.
Insults are barked in between shoves, though fading everything out to stay focused on the small object barreling towards me is easily done.
It’s second nature.
Like finding the baseline in a Stevie Wonder song.
And much like successfully finding that rhythm, I snatch the puck out of the air, preventing it from bouncing off of Hall into the net.
Eruptions of cheers echo throughout the stadium while I simply exhale.
Shake my bucket bearing head to regather my bearings.
Bounce the rubber around to prove to myself that it is indeed where it belongs.
Some muddled swearing in a different language from the d-man that had been blocking my view is attached to himskating off for a line change, an action that precedes one of the linesmen coming over to collect the coveted item out of my catcher.
“Smooth moves, Groffee,” Goonie Tune 1 insists with a small tap to my pads.
“Silky shit, Tendy,” echoes Goonie Tune 2, mirroring the action of his brother.
“Such a bloody beauty,” Snowman sings during his touch skate by.
