19
SET FACEOFF PLAY: A REHEARSED PLAY FOLLOWING A FACEOFF WIN
Completing my homework assignment for Dr. Halvorsen wipes me out. I decide to go to bed early. It’s not long before my dream starts the way they all do as of late—back on the ice.
In full uniform, the roar of the crowd vibrates through my blades. The boards whisper when I lean into them as if they’rein cahoots with me. Promising me accolades—accolades which I’ve been taught means acknowledgement.
My jersey has my name stitched across the shoulders. It’s an identity I never questioned. The clock looming overhead from the ice ticks down, red numbers burning into my peripheral vision. I feel the trickle of sweat run down my back.
That’s when I become aware of my setting. It’s a replay of my last game. I know it, yet I don’t fear what’s coming. Just certainty.
Same arena. Same opponent—the Mystic Mariners. Same arrogance as the puck drops. My stride is effortless. Powerful. Controlled.
I am exactly who I was supposed to be.
Then things change. The hit that ended my entire career never comes.
There’s contact—of course there is—but this time, it bounces off. I trip, on what I’m not certain. The Mariner player slaps a hand to my shoulder to keep me upright instead of checking me into a skull-rattling blow.
The whistle blows loudly, but I can’t understand why. It wasn’t his fault.
Confused, I skate to the boards to reorient myself and wait. My vision never wanes. The world doesn’t tilt. I stand upright, alive inside my body instead of trapped somewhere behind the darkness.
The refs make a call. The hit was called a throw from behind—a different Mariner player.
“Penalty shot. Kings.” The ref points at me.
The crowd explodes in excitement. I feel it bloom in my chest—this feral, intoxicating certainty that this moment belongs to me. My teammates slap my helmet, my gloves. Someone shouts my name. Someone always does. I speak this language fluidly—it’s the only thing I truly understand.
I skate to center ice. That’s when I notice something’s wrong.
There are two nets at the far end.
Side by side. Perfectly aligned. Same red piping. Same white mesh. Same blue paint in the crease.
But I’m not facing the Mariner’s goalies. One is ours. My goalie. Masked, squared up, familiar in the way teammates become extensions of your own body. If I shoot on him, if I score there, it’s clean. Technical. Safe. A betrayal only in theory, not in feeling. Control wrapped in muscle memory.
The other net is empty.
No, not empty.
Amy stands in front of it.
No pads. No mask. Just her, in street clothes, skates somehow on her feet, hair pulled back the way she does when she’s bracing herself for something difficult. She doesn’t crouch. She doesn’t raise her voice but it carries across the arena. “No lies anymore. What are you going to do?”
The crowd goes silent. The impossible kind like someone’s been injured on the ice. I try to speak, but my throat locks. My hands tighten around my stick instead.
The ref skates up beside me. His voice is oddly gentle.
“You only get one shot. Choose.”
I nod.
The puck is slid to me, and the weight of it as I slide it back and forth in front of my stick feels different than it ever has before. Heavier, as if it’s carrying more than rubber and history.
I glance at the first net. I know exactly how to beat my goalie. Five-hole if he shifts his weight. High blocker if he doesn’t. There’s a geometry to it, a certainty. I can already see the puck crossing the line. Already feel the satisfaction of execution.
This is control.
