“Keep it up,” Cap insists at the same time his stick encouragingly swats the same space.
“You’ve got this,” Peck follows suit with his praises matching those of our teammates.
Everyone loves a goalie when they stop the puck.
Just like everyone hates us when we don’t.
Praise and condemnation are a constant duo for me here on the ice.
Not necessarily my favorite tunes but undoubtedly the voices I recognize the most.
“Way to hit the right notes, Hall,” I murmur and tap to the goal post . “You better keep those ‘Private Eyes’ open, Oates.” A second hit to the other is made. “We’ve got more work to do.”
Lowering myself back into position is followed by another faceoff as well as another faceoffwinfrom Peck.
Budrarelyloses them.
It’s his gift.
Like tending is mine.
One of Camelot’s players grabs possession of the puck and immediately attempts to send it soaring only to have Goonie Tune 2 dive directly in its path, breaking its momentum, allowing me an easy opportunity to cover the object at the top of the crease.
The whistle blowing is easily drowned out courtesy of the claps thundering around the stadium.
Ilovethat sound.
It’s sweeter than hearing a needle drop on a vinyl.
Sweeter than that first sip of a fresh brew.
Hell, the only thing sweeter is hearing my Slayer say my nickname.
And fuck me, have I missed that sound.
Post surrendering over the prize once more, I’m delivered another round of pad taps while I steal a small glimpse of the clock above, noting the few seconds we have left in the period.
Ten seconds.
I just need to get through these next ten seconds, and I can breathe.
Wecan fucking breathe.
“Gimme ten, Hall,” my voice is low and shaky. “Need jus’ ten, Oates.”
Having the puck dropped again in our zone requires me to stay on alert; however, this time, the opposing team decides to get closer.
Pass tape to tape.
Evade Goonie Tune 1.
2.
Slip between Cap’s legs.
Keep the biscuit crossing my path left and right and left and right, forcing my face to wildly whip back and forth in desperation to stop it from slipping past.
Sticks chop and cut and clap and slap so steadily that not losing the black dot in the sea of rapidly swinging twigs is damn near unfathomable.
