I read the plays.I swallow rebounds.I control the puck behind the net and feed it to my defense with short, clean passes.
With eight minutes left, Boston gets a power play after one of our guys takes a penalty in the offensive zone.
The crowd wakes up again.They smell blood.
Their power play is fast.Lots of movement.Lots of one-touch passes.They’re trying to pull me out of position.
They set up a play I know by heart.Umbrella.Quick pass to the left circle.Backdoor option.
The puck zips across.
Their shooter winds up for a one-timer.
I push across.
He shoots high glove.
My glove snaps up.
I catch it clean.
The building groans.
I hold it and stare at the shooter for half a second through the cage, letting him know I saw it coming.
Callaway is the first one to my crease when the whistle blows, tapping my pads like he’s checking me for cracks.
“You’re rude,” he murmurs.
“Play better,” I reply.
He grins, bright and pleased.“We are playing better.”
He’s right.
We kill the penalty.
Boston pulls their goalie with two minutes left, and the ice tilts.
Six attackers.Empty net.
They throw everything at me.
One shot from the point through bodies.I block it.
Rebound pops out.A stick jabs.
I seal the ice.
The puck squirts free to the corner.Our defense battles.
Callaway comes all the way back to help, which I will never let him live down.He digs the puck out, looks up, and finds open ice.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He chips it up the boards and then takes off, legs pumping, chasing his own puck.
He gets there first.
