Page 18 of Reckless On Ice

Before I can move forward to do anything about it, Rook throws an arm around Jonsey’s neck from behind and pulls him down and onto his back on the ice. “Welcome to Atlanta, bitch,” he says as he bends over the other player. He straightens up and goes for Smith next, who is up on his skates again. “Don't touch my fucking goalie. I saw that elbow, jackass.”

A Colorado player grabs Rook before he can throw a punch, but Campbell gets past and grabs the front of Smith’s jersey, pulling him in and landing a hit or two before the refs can pull them apart. Campbell’s mouth runs even as the refs push him away, and I hear the threats and chirps he’s throwing Smith’s way. Looks like Campbell is going to be an enforcer.

Finally, the Hydras feel like a team that has my back. Or feel like a team at all. Usually, Rook and Campbell are fighting each other. Seeing them work together to go after someone else gives me hope that we can make this work. Monty stops at the net next to me, where I have my mask off, squirting water on my face. Once I realized I wouldn't have to finish the fight, I moved back for a hydration break.

“Was it necessary to drop Smith like that and start a fight in the first few minutes of play, or were you just making a statement?” my captain asks.

“Establish dominance, Monty. I’m not letting anyone push us around because we’re a new team. Smith got in my space, so I made room. When his elbow was introduced to my face mask, I made a bigger correction to ensure I could see around the distraction in my crease.”

Monty laughs and shakes his head. “Okay, point made. We've got your back, Kingsy.”

They’ve got my back.

For the first time since I got the news of my trade from Boston to Atlanta, I’m at peace. Having a team behind me, working to defend me here in my net, I know I’ll be able to do this after all.

Unfortunately, Campbell goes to the penalty box for his part in the squabble, and Colorado has the power play. The line changes, and thankfully, we manage to keep Colorado occupied for most of it. A Colorado player makes a breakaway with the puck and barrels down the ice at me. I skate forward,challenging him and watching every movement for when he shoots. He slaps the puck, and I stretch out, knocking it down to the ice with my glove and smothering it as players converge in the crease around me.

Our first period continues with more shots that I block and the boys hustling on the ice, trying to score, until the horn blows for the first intermission with a score that’s still zero-zero. I fucking hate this. While it’s great that Colorado hasn’t scored on me, we haven’t scored either, and a tie means both teams will be out for blood in the second period, hoping to change that. Will I have what it takes to stop them? Every team in the league wants to see us fail because we’re new and have nothing to prove our merit but individual records.

As I skate off the ice and walk down the tunnel to the locker room, I run through the plays from this period, thankful nothing’s gotten past me despite their many shots on goal. When I get to my stall, I grab my phone in nervous agitation, needing a distraction from the stalemate on the ice and the pressure that rests on my shoulders to provide a shutout game or make sure we don't lose. I rarely look at my phone until after the game, but tonight, everything feels different, and I’m changing things up. I have a text from Knox that I click curiously. We’ve only exchanged the briefest texts with necessary information, so I’m not sure what this could be.

Knox: Good luck tonight, not that you need it because you’re a fucking incredible goalie and bring so much skill and talent that Coloradowon’t know what’s hit them. Have a great game, and remember, no matter what happens, you’ve already won because they chose you. They wanted you. Be the fucking star you are.

Knox: And think about what you say before you say it for any post-game interviews, for Goldie’s sake. She doesn't want to end up in Canada or Minnesota or wherever they’ve threatened to send you.

I set my phone down, swallowing the unexpected lump in my throat, and chuckle at his stupid second message. Knoxwouldcome at me with a pep talk to hype me up and then wrap it up with a reminder of my current situation. The crazy thing is, he’s out of town for a game, yet he remembered my first game is today and took the time to send me a message. All because the golden boy is actually nice, thoughtful, and wants to do good things, whereas I have to work to not be an asshole as my baseline.

I put my phone away and, oddly, feel more prepared for the next period. It’s not like Knox said anything groundbreaking, and Coach gave a perfectly fine pre-game speech that got us ready to play. This is still somehow different. Knox has every reason to hate me. He could ignore me outside of the short interactions we have to work on whatever it is that will help me learn my lesson and be well within his rights. Yet, he’s making apoint to pump me up for a game he doesn't even play, knowing me well enough to anticipate that I’d be in my head right now.

“Don't start any fights this period, Kingsy,” Coach says as he strides in.

“But Coach, you know the rules,” Rook says from his stall. He waves his hand like he’s conducting a choir.

“Don’t touch our goalie,” the team says in unison.

We’re running down the clock in the third period, the score is one-zero in our favor, and we’ll pull off a shutout if we can keep Colorado from scoring in this last minute of play. They’ve pulled the Colorado goalie and added a sixth man to the ice to give themselves an advantage, hoping to get a point on the board, tie us up—and send the game into overtime and potentially a shootout, where the chances of scoring are higher.

Sweat drips into my eyes, and I shake my head, not daring to blink or lose sight of the puck that’s being passed like lightning across the ice as my team battles to steal it back. Nico slams a Colorado player into the boards, and they scrabble for the puck. Smith is back in my crease, waiting for his chance to score if they can pass to him. Nico knocks the puck away from the boards to Monty, who skates around the back of my net and passes to Westy. Jonsey from Colorado is there to steal the puck and passes to Smith. He’s ready and takes advantageof the chaos around the goal, sending it at my left shoulder, the opposite side of the goal from where I’ve been crouched. I explode, reflexes running on instinct, my glove reaching up and out as I push off my skate to propel me across the goal. I just manage to snag the puck before it crosses under the top bar.

The arena explodes with noise as the clock hits zero and the horn blows, signaling the end of the game. Holy fucking shit, that was so close. I rise, and my teammates on the ice skate toward me, jumping onto me in a group hug that feels like we’ve won the Cup rather than our first game, but I go with it. The adrenaline is flowing, and that last save has me feeling like we're gods of the ice.

Monty grabs me by the back of my neck, knocking his helmet against mine before moving back and shouting to the team, “That’s how you do it, boys!”

“That’s my goalie!” Campbell adds, sliding into the team hug.

And I do feel like their goalie after this game.

“Celly at the bar tonight,” Nico crows as we make our way back into the locker room.

“Before you boys start your celebrations, I need Kingsy and Monty to do the post-game pressers. Then you boys can do whatever the hell you want. Go answer some questions, shower, and get out of here. You have tomorrow off, but I’ll see you bright and early the next day for morning skate before we leave for the plane. Don’t do anything that will land youin jail or my office,” Coach Kennedy shouts over our raucous noise.

I groan. Of course he wants me to field media after our first game being a shutout. I strip out of my pads and put on a team shirt and shorts. I slide a hat on backwards and join Monty as we follow our head of PR, McKenna Kresley, into the media room.

I see that fucking reporter who ambushed me on media day and started the downward trajectory of my life with her stupid questions. The piece she published the following day about toxic masculinity in sports blasted mystunted emotional empathy and intelligence.She can fuck right off with her questions, I won't be entertaining her after that warm reception.

“Ryder, that was an amazing last-second save right before the buzzer. What was going through your mind during that play?” a reporter asks. I’m not familiar with the cadre of journalists in the room, though I’m sure I’ll learn all their names and who they work with, whether a major network, a local newspaper, or a sports podcast, within the season.

Finally, a piece of cake question I can answer easily. This is what media day should have been. “I was dialed in, thinking like a winner. There’s not much you can do in a chaotic play like that other than know where the key players are and follow the puck with anticipation. Everything workedtogether for us, and that’s the mindset I’m taking with me into the season,” I say, my answer professional, finally using my years of team media training and post-game press experience to give a soundbite-worthy response.

---