1
Jabari
Two minutes left in the game, and we’re down by one. I race toward the goal, keeping my eyes out for my left and right wingers. Our rivals, the Pittsburgh Emperors, are leading our division halfway through this season. We’re right on their heels, hoping this game can put us on top.
The Emperors’ goalie has been on point all night. If I can sneak the puck past him, we’ll tie. Just as I set up to aim a shot, one of their defensemen slams me into the boards. Pushing back, I scan for the puck, but he slams me again, pinning my face against the plexiglass.
“Got it,” Pascal, our left winger, yells.
The Emperors’ defense players race after him. Finally free, I follow them. I need to get in an open position in case Pascal needs to pass the puck back to me. But one of their guys blocks Pascal’s shot and heads down the ice, back toward our goal. Tae, our right defenseman, checks him, but another Emperors player takes possession and takes a slap shot right at our goal.
Raimo Karvonen, our goalie, catches the biscuit in his right glove, and the crowd roars with approval. I glance at the clock. There’s a minute and thirty seconds left to play. Raimo slides me the puck, and I pass to Sanchez, who takes it down the ice. Ourline keeps forward progression, eyes on the prize. Pascal blocks an Emperor, and a prime position for the goal awaits me. Sanchez sees the opening and passes the puck my way.
I pull my stick back. Swing. Connect.
It sails right over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net.
The crowd cheers as the goal horn blares. I throw my hands into the air. Pascal and Sanchez quickly flank me, slapping me on the back. Tae and Trevor, our two defensemen, skate behind me and pat my shoulders. I grin as we break the huddle, then skate over to the bench and high-five the guys on the bench. Our line sits as the next enters the ice.
Whew.
According to the scoreboard clock, I’ve been playing a total of fifteen minutes. The coaches keep each line on around two minutes, trading us out here and there to keep our legs fresh and our spirits high.
My attention turns to the game. All Raimo has to do is ensure the Emperors don’t score again before the clock runs out. If we end up in overtime, I know we can win.
Fifty-seven seconds left.
Coach calls for a switch, and Sanchez is back on the ice. He’s clutch in the last second, which is why he gets called out more often than not. One of our guys rams an Emperor forward up against the boards. Sanchez shoves his stick along the sides to gain possession of the puck. His skates cause a spray of ice as he sprints toward our rival’s goal.
“Come on, Sanchez, come on.”
“Make the goal,” Tae mumbles beside me.
I let a small grin cover my lips, but I don’t lose focus on the puck. My breath hitches as Sanchez attempts an impossible shot. The horn blares and I cheer. Game over, but we’ve made the goal just in time. It’s a win for us.
The whole team flocks to the center of the ice, sticks held in the air in celebration. Our fans give us a standing ovation. There’snothing like a win, and one against our chief rival is even sweeter. The whole team lines up, waves to the fans, then circles around the rink before exiting into the player tunnel leading to the locker room.
I take off my helmet and pop my neck side to side. I hate to admit it, but my body feels every jab, every hit, every single movement I make. At thirty-three, I’m considered old by hockey standards. At least I’m not as old as Jaromír Jágr was when he played for the Calgary Flames back in 2017. Bro was in his mid-forties. Still, my knees are probably at least fifty years old.
Which is why I let the PT assistant wrap the joints as soon as my pads and uniform shorts come off. Someone plays Queen, and “We Are the Champions” fills the locker room. I throw a fist in the air and let out a loud cry of jubilation.
I can’t stop the grin from forming. Tonight was our night. Sanchez making that last goal was peak. Granted, the kid’s only twenty-four and has endless amounts of energy.
As the song ends, Coach motions for us to quiet down. I lean forward, wiping the sweat from my brow with the towel hanging from my neck.
“Y’all played one heck of a game.”
The locker room fills with cheers once more.
“All right, all right.” His hands splay out downward. “I don’t want to keep you. I know y’all got families waiting for you.” He looks at the sheet in his hand. “Sanchez, Karvonen, and Hall, I need y’all out with the reporters. Sanchez, obviously they’ll want to talk about the game-winning goal. Raimo, good job on that block.” He turns toward me. “And, Crank, they’ll want to talk about the shot that tied us up and allowed Sanchez to get us that W.”
“I’ll be out there, Coach.” Unlike Sanchez and Raimo, I don’t have anyone waiting for me in the family room. My dad is a nonentity, and my mom lives in Ohio.
Oh, and a wife? Yeah, not for me.
I grab my white Warriors hoodie and throw on some matchingsweatpants. I’m not required to dress up for the interview, so I won’t. I still need a shower, but the reporters want us fresh from the rink, not necessarily smelling fresh.
Sanchez and Raimo meet me in the hall leading to the conference room where the reporters wait. We each represent the Warriors’ colors, with one of the guys wearing all blue sweats and the other all red. We’re repping our nation’s capital well.
