In spite of the swears and insults the other team is barking at me –and the boys defending me– I keep my bodyin a butterfly stance, eyes searching, refusing to let the slippery little intruder slide inside.
Breathing is impossible.
Thinking is improbable.
All I have is instinct.
The vibe in the air.
Notes that only I can hear each time the sticks drop the beat in the rink.
And it’s being in tune withthattuneskie that leads to me hearing the faint swish of the puck skating across the ice, melody unstopped, meaning there’s nothing in its way.
At that moment, I swiftly kick my left leg out to collide with the post, thin blade just barely managing to pin the rubber enemy in its place.
The whistle, the buzzer, and the crowd eruption all happen simultaneously yet before my lungs can be granted the gift of air, I’m aggressively clipped in the shoulder by one of the Cheetahs during his skate off.
Boos of outrage damn near instantaneously become bellows of vengeance courtesy of Cap doing what a captain should always do.
Protect his team.
One of the biggest unspoken rules in the game is younevergo after the other team’s goalie.
That’s ringing a bell you can’t fucking unring.
We’re talkin’ the dog whistle of fuck ups.
We’re talkin’ give you a triple shot of espresso when you asked for decaf level “oh shit”.
Never fuck with the goalie.
Especially if you wanna keep your gibs.
To no surprise, the zebs who should be collecting the puck from me, checking on my temperament, inspecting that I actually did stop it against Oates – and I definitely did –they’re forced to throw themselves into the belly of the scrap that reminds me of barfights back home – prompted by a little too much yager – at the very bar where I met Gillybean.
While most of the blood splattered on the ice is clearly from the player being escorted off by a panicked med member and a linesman, Cap lets his join the mess by spitting out a mouthful prior to lifting his hands in a blatant command that the crowd roars ra on top of ra until we have all cleared the area.
Regardless of the tied score and pending penalty we’re facing, the locker room is buzzing.
Swarming with revitalized determination.
Cap throwing fists did what it always does.
Reset the track.
Adjusted the tone.
Got us all back on the same verse.
Well.
Almostall of us.
Just as I finish running my fingers through my now bucket free damp hair, I solemnly state, “Sorry for fuckin’ it up out there, boys.”
Eyes from all around the room cut over to me, but it’s Cap that grumbles, “It’s not you, Groffee.” Wahl tosses him a towel to use. “You’re getting speed bagged.”
“Dummied,” the twins echo in tandem.
