Someone takes a shot, but it deflects off of the goalie’s blocker as he slides across the net through the crease.
“Nice block.”
The Eagles dribble the puck on the back side of the net, waiting for their defensive pair to change out. The puck’s passed to someone on the center line and then to one of their players, who brings it into the zone. I lower into position, blocker and glove at the ready. My defensemen are in position, ready to lay their bodies on the line for the game.
I owe a lot to my defensemen on the team. They take some hard shots straight to the body, having far less padding than me. But it’s because of them that I’m able to shine as bright as I do. That doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated.
“Forty-nine. Forward. Has the puck. Passes to …” My words fall by the wayside as he passes it to the receiving player, stick ready to swing through. “Come here. I see you.”
I grunt as the shot bounces off of my chest. Letting it slide down my pads, I dish it to Larinski, who takes it behind the net, allowing Kos, Costy, and Burnsy to change with the next line. With fresh legs on the ice, Larinski tosses the puck across the ice, finding our rookie forward, KJ Brenner’s stick.
Our youngest player, Charlie Jenshak, catches Brenner’s pass, dekes out the defenseman, and shoots the puck right through the five-hole of their goalie.
The lamps light up, both across the ice and behind me, as the building erupts with life and celebration. My heart skips a beat, and I shake my head forward, shifting my helmet. People have said I sometimes look like a chicken on the ice with the way I shake my helmet, but it’s become a routine thing to do after every play dies.
The score during the rest of the first period remains unchanged, and it stays the same through the second and most of the third period. Unfortunately, one of their defensemen manages to sneak a shot past me as I’m blinded by one of their forwards, tying the game up one to one.
Fucking idiot. You should have seen that screen coming and shifted. Do not cost them this game.
“I’ve got this. I’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath as they reset at center ice with three minutes left in the game. “Come on, boys.”
My breaths shallow out, and I have to force myself to take deeper ones, filling my lungs to capacity.
Stay focused.
The ref drops the puck, and we gain possession, our starting line back on the ice. Costy brings the puck into the zone, dishing it back to Larinski, who passes it to JD as Burnsy works to get open.
Rerunning stats through my mind to cope with my anxiety, I watch with bated breath as JD slaps the puck hard to Burnsy, who redirects it … but I lose sight of it. It doesn’t matter though because our boys burst into excitement, their sticks up in the air.
Hands slap the glass behind me, the best crowd in the league losing their mind as we take the lead with only two minutes left. Turning to my net, I set my stick on top of it and grab my bottle, spraying water into my mouth.
My shoulders lighten as I replay the goal in my head. But as I secure my water bottle and grab my stick, the tension returns,and it stays like that until the clock runs out and we win, two to one.
My ears start to ring as the crowd goes crazy, seemingly louder than I’ve ever heard them. My team skates over to me, forming a line.
Kos is first, bumping my helmet with his and patting the back of my head. “Great game, Matty.”
“You too, man,” I tell the backbone of our team.
Costy is next. “Killed it, Big Mac.”
Then Larinski. “Good job, buddy.”
Burnsy bumps my helmet next. “Woo-hoo! Love you, Macky.”
I swear I have more nicknames on this team than anyone else.
JD taps my shoulder repeatedly after he approaches. “Crushed it, Big Mac.”
Sentiments continue from the guys and me as the rest of the team makes their way through the line, heading to the locker room, and I take the caboose, our coaches praising us as we step through the bench and go down the tunnel.
The Eagles are done, and we’ve added another win to our stats sheet.
Up next is the biggest challenge we’ll face—playoffs.
I’m exhausted when I stroll into my apartment after a drink with the guys at The Penalty Box, a yawn taking over my face as I kick my tennis shoes off and drop my backpack on the ground. I leftmy bedroom light on accidentally, and it acts as a beacon to my tired and sore muscles.
Silence greets me—the usual audio that fills my ears when I come home. No pets or someone special. But a clean house and kept bed.
