Page 24 of Across the Boards

“You’re pathetic,” I tell my reflection as I finish getting ready. My reflection just grins back at me, not disagreeing in the slightest.

The day passes in the usual game-day haze—morning skate, team meeting, pre-game meal, nap. By the time I’m getting dressed for the arena, my focus has shifted fully to hockey mode. Tonight we’re playing Vancouver, a team that’s been struggling lately but always gives us trouble.

My phone buzzes one more time as I’m heading out the door with a text from Tommy.

Sarah’s with Elliot watching the game. Just FYI. Don’t do anything embarrassing.

Great. So much for “in the background while I work.” Now I know she’s actually watching, with Sarah no doubt providing color commentary on my every move. No pressure at all.

* * *

The game starts well.We’re up 2-0 after the first period, with Tommy scoring on the power play and Jensen standing on his head to keep Vancouver off the board. I’ve had a few good defensive plays but nothing spectacular.

During the first intermission, Coach reminds us not to get comfortable. “Vancouver’s desperate. They’ll come out hard in the second. Stay focused, stay disciplined.”

He’s right. Vancouver comes out flying, hemming us in our zone for the first five minutes of the period. Jensen makes save after save, but eventually a shot from the point deflects off someone’s stick and finds the back of our net. 2-1.

The momentum shifts. Vancouver’s pressing, their fans getting louder with each rush. We’re on our heels, reacting instead of controlling the play.

Then I see an opportunity—their forward makes a lazy cross-ice pass. I step into the lane, pick off the puck, and suddenly I’m breaking out alone. It’s a two-on-one with Ramirez on my right. The defenseman commits to me, so I slide the puck over to Ramirez who buries it top shelf.

3-1.

The crowd erupts. My teammates pound me with gloves and stick taps as we celebrate the goal. And for one ridiculous moment, I wonder if Elliot saw it. If she’s impressed. If Sarah is telling her right now about the defensive read I made to create the chance.

Focus, Carter. There’s still half a game to play.

The rest of the second period is tight, back-and-forth hockey with neither team giving much ground. When the buzzer sounds, we’re still up 3-1, but Vancouver isn’t going away easily.

Early in the third, disaster strikes. I go to block a shot and the puck catches me on the inside of my ankle, right where there’s a gap in my protective gear. The pain is immediate and intense—like being hit with a hammer. I crumple to the ice but manage to swipe the puck away from the Vancouver forward.

Play continues down the ice while I struggle to my feet. My ankle is screaming, but I grit my teeth and stay in the play. When the whistle finally blows, I limp to the bench, trying not to put weight on my right foot.

“You okay?” Coach asks, his face creased with concern.

“Fine,” I lie. “Just need a minute.”

The team trainer examines my ankle while Coach sends out the next line. “Nothing’s broken,” the trainer concludes. “But that’s going to be a nasty bruise. Want to get some ice on it?”

“After the game,” I insist. We’re up by two with fifteen minutes left. I’m not sitting out.

“Your funeral,” he mutters, taping a quick protective pad over the spot.

Finally, I’m back on the ice, the pain dulled to a persistent throb. Vancouver has pulled within one goal, making it 3-2 with ten minutes remaining. The crowd is tense, the arena electric with nervous energy.

On my next shift, I find myself one-on-one with their star forward breaking in on our goal. I’m favoring my right ankle, and he knows it, trying to exploit the weakness by cutting to that side. But I’ve played through worse pain. I angle him off, force him wide, and poke the puck away clean. No penalty, no shot on goal. Just textbook defense.

The crowd roars its approval. From the corner of my eye, I see people standing and cheering. For a defenseman. In the middle of a play. It’s a good feeling.

We hold on to win 3-2, a solid team effort that keeps us in playoff position. As I’m doing a post-game interview with the team reporter, my phone buzzes in my locker. I finish the interview quickly, showering and changing in record time to check my messages.

That block in the third period looked painful. You okay?

My heart does a stupid little flip. She wasn’t just watching—she was paying attention. Enough to notice a blocked shot and be concerned about it.

Nothing ice and ibuprofen won’t fix. Occupational hazard.

Is it bad that I was more worried about our taco plans tomorrow than your actual well-being?

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