“No shit.”
We’re down 2-1 in the third period. Coach is pacing behind us like a caged animal.
“Brixton! Hawkins! Morrison! You’re up!”
We hop the boards. Micah wins the faceoff this time—miracle—and passes to Jax. Jax skates up the right side. I’m trailing, watching for the opening.
Their defense collapses on Jax. He tries to pass to Micah, but Micah’s not where he should be.
The puck bounces loose.
I see it before anyone else does.
The slot is wide open. Their goalie is tracking Jax, not the loose puck.
I should pass to Micah. That’s the play. That’s what a left wing does.
But Micah’s still out of position and we’re running out of time.
Fuck it.
I scoop the puck and drive toward the net. Cut in from the left like I’m a center forward. Their defense scrambles, but I’m already shooting.
Top shelf. Glove side.
Goal.
The horn sounds. The crowd erupts. I pump my fist and skate toward the bench.
But Coach isn’t celebrating.
He’s red-faced and pointing at me as I come off the ice.
“Brixton! What the hell was that?”
“A goal?”
“That wasn’t your play!”
“The play wasn’t working. I adjusted.”
“You took Kirby’s position!”
“Kirby wasn’t in position!” I bark back.
Coach gets in my face. “You don’t get to make those calls. You play your position or you sit. Understand?”
I clench my jaw. “Yes, Coach.”
“Good. Now get back out there and play like a team.”
We end up losing 4-3. I score another goal—properly, from my position—and assist on Jax’s goal in the final minute.
But Coach doesn’t congratulate me in the locker room. Just glares every time I look his way.
I’m pulling off my gear when he appears next to my stall.
“You got a problem with Kirby?” he asks.
