Midway through, Ash takes a high stick to the mouth, goes down, and stays down.
I can feel my blood pressure spike, every heartbeat in my ears like a bomb ticking down.
I see the trainer start to come out, but Ash waves him off, gets up slow, spits a mouthful of blood onto the ice, then skates straight for the bench.
He grabs a towel, jams it to his face, and I watch him laughing with Tommy like it’s a fucking joke.
It isn’t.
Next shift, Kruchten lines up opposite Ash on the faceoff. He leans in, says something. Ash responds with a head tilt, like he’s daring him to say it again.
The puck drops, and Kruchten doesn’t even go for the puck. He just barrels straight through Ash, sending him flying.
This time, Ash doesn’t get up right away. He’s curled on the ice, one glove off, holding his side.
For a second, the world goes silent, the whole arena holding its breath, and I feel every muscle in my body contract, ready to bolt from the crease and end this myself.
But he gets up. Of course he does. He always does.
He skates to the bench, one hand on the dasher, breath coming in shallow gasps. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s trying not to let anyone see how much it hurts.
The rest of the period is a blur. I make a couple of saves I have no business making, pure adrenaline, pure hatred.
The Titans score again, but we claw one back on the power play, Ash getting the assist even though he can barely hold his stick.
By the third, it’s a war zone.
We’re down one, ten minutes left, and every shift is a death march. Ash is out there, eyes glassy, skating on fumes. Kruchtenis everywhere, shadowing him, chirping, slamming him into the boards every chance he gets.
With two minutes left, Ash takes the puck in deep, weaves through two guys, and gets flattened by Kruchten at the top of the crease.
I watch his head snap back, helmet flying off, and he hits the ice so hard the sound echoes in my chest.
Time slows.
I see the blood first, bright and clean, splattering the ice in a perfect arc.
Ash is motionless, arms splayed, blood pooling under his chin. Kruchten stands over him, breathing hard, grinning, waiting for the ref to call something.
I want to kill him. I want to skate the length of the ice and put my blocker through his teeth.
But I don’t move.
I stay in my net, pads glued to the ice, hands locked on my stick so tight I can feel the composite creak. My mouth is dry, my eyes are burning, but I don’t leave my post. I can’t.
The trainer is on the ice now, rolling Ash to his side, mopping the blood with a towel. He blinks, once, then sits up, mouth full of red, and looks straight at me.
He smiles.
The crowd goes fucking ballistic. They chant his name, the whole building shaking with it, "ASH-ER, ASH-ER," over and over, and I want to believe it’s enough to pull him back to life.
He stands. He spits another mouthful of blood, grabs his helmet, and skates to the bench like he owns the place. He high-fives Tommy, then sits, head down, towel pressed to his mouth.
I lose it. For a second, I see nothing but red.
Next whistle, I skate to the ref, tell him if he doesn’t get control of this game, I’ll handle it myself.
He gives me a warning, tells me to get back in my net. I want to smash my stick over the crossbar, but I just skate back, jaw clenched so hard my teeth might crack.
