Out here, nothing can touch me.
If I keep my mask on.
The period grinds on.Boston tries to wear us down with pressure and hits, trying to make our new roster crack.
It doesn’t.
Our defense communicates.Our forwards track back.Callaway actually backchecks, which I’m going to remind him of later just to watch him pretend he didn’t do it for me.
We get a power play late in the second after Boston takes a lazy hook on one of our rookies.
Callaway lines up on the right half-wall, stick tapping the ice as the puck drops.
Boston’s penalty kill is aggressive.They pressure hard, trying to force mistakes.
Callaway receives the puck, fakes a pass, draws the high forward toward him, then threads a seam pass through the box to the far circle.
One-timer.
Post.
The sound rings through the arena like a bell.
Callaway throws his head back, angry, then resets instantly.He wants the next one.
The puck stays in.We keep pressure.The clock runs.
A shot finally sneaks through and the goalie covers.
The horn sounds.
End of the second.
In the locker room, the air is damp and loud with breathing.Coaches talk.Guys drink water.Tape gets ripped.Gear gets adjusted.
I sit at my stall and stare at my pads, letting my mind stay where it belongs.
Angles.
Rebounds.
Traffic.
A shadow—no, a shape—moves into my peripheral.
Callaway drops onto the bench beside my stall.He’s sweaty, hair damp at his temples, cheeks flushed from the cold.
He looks alive in a way that makes me want to do something reckless.
“Nice job out there,” he says.
I keep my tone flat.“Do your job.”
He laughs under his breath.“I did.”
My eyes lift.
He’s watching me like the locker room isn’t full of people.Like the only thing that matters is the line between my mouth and his.
