Page 113 of On Ice

Period over. Still 3-1.

The atmosphere in our dressing room during intermission is suffocating. Noah sits silently in his stall, staring at nothing. Rodriguez unwraps the tape from his stick, replacing it with methodical precision. Torres is getting a cut above his eye treated by our trainer.

Coach Daniels’ jaw is tight and he keeps his message simple: “Get traffic in front. Take away Vasquez’s eyes. He can’t stop what he can’t see.”

Third period, and desperation fuels every stride. We’ve dominated the first five minutes, hemming the Guardians in their zone with sustained pressure. But Vasquez is locked in, turning away everything we throw at him.

Mills fires a point shot that I tip on the way through. Vasquez somehow adjusts, the puck glancing off his shoulder. Rodriguez pounces on the rebound, but his backhand sails over the crossbar.

“Stay with it,” I shout, circling back to the bench for a line change.

Jackson and Rodriguez step off with me, replaced by our energy line. We need fresh legs, the Guardians are starting to push back.

The shift indicator on the bench shows eight minutes elapsed. Time is becoming our enemy.

“Next shift, work it low to high,” Coach instructs as we catch our breath. “They’re collapsing down low. Get it to the point and crash for rebounds.”

I nod, gulping water, watching as Marchenko dangles around Deck at our blue line. Noah makes a huge glove save, then quickly swats the rebound to the corner to avoid a stoppage. Smart, we need the clock running.

“Riley, Jackson, Rodriguez,” Coach calls. “Go.”

We vault over the boards on the fly, catching the Guardians in a line change. Torres retrieves Noah’s outlet pass and hits me streaking through the neutral zone. Suddenly there’s space, the defense caught flat-footed.

Two-on-one. Jackson on my right. The lone defender, Conrad, shades toward me, taking away the shot.

I feign a pass to Jackson, then pull the puck to my forehand as Conrad commits. The lane to the net opens momentarily. I fire high glove, where Vasquez has been unbeatable all night. A psychological play, challenging his strength.

The puck finds the tiniest gap between his glove and the post. The red light flashes.

3-2. 10:26 remaining.

“That’s one,” Jackson bellows, slapping my helmet as we embrace by the boards. “We’re not done.”

The goal energizes our bench. Even in enemy territory, the momentum has shifted. The Guardians call their timeout, their coach gesturing frantically at the whiteboard.

“They’re rattled,” Mills says as we cluster around Coach Daniels. “Let’s go right back at them.”

The next five minutes are a war of attrition. Each team trading chances, bodies sacrificed to block shots. Noah stones Lindsey on a partial breakaway, sprawling to poke the puck away before the forward can elevate it.

Five minutes remaining. Still down by one.

Torres and Mills start a shift against the Guardians’ top line. Marchenko circles through the neutral zone with speed, but Torres steps up, delivering a perfectly timed hip check that separates the Russian from the puck. The crowd groans as Mills collects it and starts our breakout.

I hop over the boards with Rodriguez and Jackson, receiving Mills’ pass in stride as we enter the offensive zone. Rodriguez peels to the far corner, drawing his defender with him. I curl at the half-wall, looking for options.

The Guardians’ defense has tightened up, protecting the house. No clean lanes to the net. I work the puck back to Reeves at the point, then drive to the front of the net, feeling Thompson’s crosscheck against my back as I battle for position.

Reeves walks the line, then sends a slap-pass toward Jackson at the side of the net. Jackson redirects it through the crease, a perfect setup, but Rodriguez can’t get his stick on it at the far post. The puck slides harmlessly away.

“Fuck.”Rodriguez slams his stick against the ice.

Three minutes left. The Guardians are collapsing further, content to chip pucks out and kill time. Each dump-in is retrieved by Noah, who quickly plays it to our defensemen to restart the attack.

“Again,” I shout, as we reload through the neutral zone.

Mills carries it this time, waiting until the last moment before dropping it to me as I curl behind him. The misdirection works. I find a seam between defenders and drive wide toward the goal line.

No shot, but I spy Rodriguez ghosting into the high slot, momentarily forgotten by his checker. I center it through traffic. Rodriguez one-times it, a laser aimed for the top corner.

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