And somehow, this bit of trickery works. When the game starts, I feel a little calmer than I have lately. These are just a bunch of assholes, and I’m here to teach them a lesson.
Three minutes in, when Abbotsford’s first line crashes the net, I track the shot through traffic and snag it with my glove, almost like it’s in slow motion.
Then, when their power-play unit tries to thread a cross-crease pass, my pad is already there.
“Fucking right, Becker!” Rigsy shouts after I stop their captain on a breakaway.
That’s when I make a deal with myself—If we don’t win, I can’t check my phone at all tonight.
And it works, too! For two more periods, I’m untouchable. We win 3-0, my first shutout of the season. The guys are slapping my helmet, shouting in my ear.
It’s not until I’m back in the locker room, peeling off my sweaty gear, that I finally look. Ten hours after I’d sent my last text, there’s a reply.
Forest
Great to hear you’re starting. Good luck tonight. Hope it goes well for you.
That’s it. No innuendo. No hint that he’s thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about him. Just... polite. Like he’s responding to his dentist’s appointment reminder.
The shutout doesn’t feel as good anymore.
No, wait, it does. I needed that shutout bad. I reply to his tepid message, because fuck it.
We won 3-0. I didn’t let in a single puck. Kept picturing those homophobic Plague assholes every time I made a save.
I wait a few minutes, then add:
Also was thinking about your beard on my balls.
I don’t expect a reply tonight. Or maybe ever. But apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
He doesn’t reply. And I’m kinda bummed out, but I’m also kinda busy, because we’re playing Abbotsford again the next night, and Coach starts me again. “You seem to have ’em dialed in, so go for it,” he says.
This catches me totally off guard, but I don’t get much of a chance to worry about it. Warmups rush past, and suddenly it’s game time again.
The second night in Abbotsford starts differently. They know I’m coming now. Their coach has shown them video of my glove side, and their players are chirping before the puck even drops.
“Nice shutout, pretty boy, but you won’t do it twice.”
But I’m still coasting on the high of yesterday’s game, still channeling that weird calm I found when I pictured the Plague game, with the Stickhandlers supercharged to vanquish their opponent, and Forest there on the ice, watching me, needing my help.
Yeah, okay. Let’s just do it again. I tap my posts—left, right, center—and settle in.
First period, I’m a wall. Nothing gets through. Not their top line’s tic-tac-toe passing play. Not their defenseman’s booming slapshot. Nothing.
Second period, they get desperate. Their captain—Holmgren, a thick-necked guy with three missing teeth—crashes my crease on every play. On their power play, he plants himself right in front of me, his ass basically in my face.
“How’s the view down there?” he jeers.
“Better than looking at your face,” I answer. “Maybe fire your dentist.”
He’s so annoyed that he doesn’t see his teammate’s shot coming. It hits him in the leg and ricochets in. Just like that, my shutout streak is over.
I slam my stick against the post, furious with myself. But then I remember two things: One, sticks are expensive. Two, my high school coach always said, “The only save that matters is the next one.”
Right. Reset. Focus. When Holmgren comes in alone five minutes later, I read his move before he even makes it. Glove save, clean as they come.
“Fuck you,” he spits.
