It’s worse than my rookie season when I got nerves and butterflies knowing my new pack was watching me.
I grab the puck behind the net and swing my shoulders toward the boards, already sending it up the wall to Steele. The pass connects cleanly and the puck leaves my stick exactly where it should.
Then the hit comes.
The forward chasing the play does not pull up. He drives straight through me and pins me into the glass hard enough that the boards shudder. My shoulder slams first, then the back of my helmet cracks against the plexi with a sharp pop that rattles through my skull.
For half a second, everything flashes white.
When the color comes back, the crowd is already roaring and I am not entirely sure how long I was standing there. Someone on my team launches himself at the guy who hit me. Gloves hit the ice. Sticks clatter. The officials’ whistles start screaming through the noise.
By the time I push off the boards and turn around, the fight is already exploding.
Two players are tangled near the corner throwing wild punches, while another pair crashes into the glass near the blue line. Both benches are leaning over the boards shouting. The sound rolls through the arena like thunder, and for a moment, it feels slightly too loud, pressing in from the wrong direction.
I steady myself and take a breath, letting the cold air burn into my lungs.
I am fine.
The hit was hard, sure, but I have taken worse. I skate toward the play just as the linesmen start separating bodies and dragging players apart.
“Beckett!”
Coach’s voice cuts through the noise from the bench.
I glance over and see him pointing at me with the expression that means he has already decided something I am not going to like.
I glide toward the boards while the fight continues behind me. My legs feel steady enough. My head throbs a little where it hit the glass, but that is normal after a collision like that. Adrenaline hums through my chest, and I am already looking toward the next shift.
Coach is not looking at the ice anymore. He is watching me.
“You good?” he asks the second I reach the bench.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, grabbing the top of the boards and leaning in close so he can hear me over the arena. “Clean hit. I’m good to go.”
He studies my face for a long moment, eyes sharp.
“You just took a board hit to the head.”
“My shoulder hit first.”
“Your helmet still smacked the glass.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
Behind us, the officials finally drag the last two players apart and the crowd erupts again as penalties start getting handed out. My pulse is still racing and my hands itch to get back on the ice.
Coach folds his arms.
“You were just cleared to play.”
“Exactly. Good to go. We need this win.”
“We need you for the playoffs.”
The words land like a brick.
“We need this win. I can still play.”
