Page 19 of Grief & Glitter

The officials sorted out the penalties while I skated a slow circle to check that everything still worked. Shoulder fine, hip fine, head fine, pride severely damaged, and there wasn’t much anyone could do about that. When I passed the bench, Chip raised an eyebrow at me, and from the other end Arnaud banged his stick against the ice and yelled, “Tortue!” Even in French. Fantastic.

I climbed over the boards for the change and sat down beside one of the rookies, who was trying so hard not to laugh that his whole face had gone red.

“Do it, and you’re dead.”

He looked straight ahead. “Didn’t say anything.”

“Good.”

Coach Harris leaned over. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, because we’ve got a power play.” He nodded toward the penalty boxes, where Kessler had somehow picked up an extra two minutes for the original hit, which meant Bob’s stupidity had at least bought us something useful. Coach tapped my shoulder. “Get out there.”

I went. The first unit moved the puck around the zone until their penalty kill collapsed toward Walker, who sent it back to the point. Chip moved it across, as I drifted low while everyone watched the puck. Bob stood in the penalty box shouting something I couldn’t hear, probably tactical advice, possibly threats. It could go either way. The puck came across. I caught it. Shot. Goal. The red light flashed behind the goalie and the building went insane. And that time I smiled. Couldn’t help it. Walker reached me first and nearly took my helmet off, slapping the back of it. Bob was right behind him with a side bump that nearly put me into the glass. At least this time I stayed upright.

One-nothing.

The second came five minutes later when Walker buried a rebound from the edge of the crease, the exact ugly goal Coach had spent the last week demanding. Their first came before the end of the period off a turnover in our zone, and we went into intermission up two-one.

Bob came back from the box looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

“You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“Motivation.”

“You punched a guy.”

“He flattened you.”

“It was a legal hit.”

Bob stared at me.

“Mostly legal,” I amended.

“He made you a turtle.”

Walker lost it completely. I pointed at Bob. “You’re dead to me.”

“Five minutes for defending your honor, and this is the thanks I get.”

“I didn’t ask you to defend my honor.”

“Someone had to. You were on your back waving your little feet in the air.”

I threw a towel at him. He caught it and wiped his face with it. Asshole.

The second period belonged to us. Chip scored from the point through traffic. One of the rookies got his first of the season on a breakaway and nearly launched himself through the glass celebrating. Arnaud stopped everything thrown at him, including a nasty shot from Kessler that he gloved clean before giving the guy a long stare. Four-one going into the third, and for the first time all season, everything clicked. We weren’t chasing the game or forcing passes that weren’t there or trying to make every shot pretty. We were winning battles, getting bodies to the net, doing exactly what Coach had drilled into us. Retrieve pucks. Win battles. Score.

They got one back halfway through the third, but Walker answered less than two minutes later, tipping Bob’s shot from the blue line past their goalie. Five-two. The final horn went with the crowd already on its feet.

I coasted toward Arnaud as everyone spilled off the bench, gloves tapping helmets, sticks banging against pads. He pulled off his mask and grinned at me.

“Tortue.”