Page 9 of Icebreaker

Finally, it was my turn. "Last but not least, the backbone of our defense, number thirty-six Axel Karlsson."

I pushed off and glided across the ice, giving the crowd a brief nod. I wasn't in the game for the adoration of fans. I was there to do a job, lead by example, and let my skills speak for themselves.

The spotlights swept across our lineup one last time, and then the house lights returned, bathing the entire arena in a bright glare. The game was about to begin.

While the referee positioned himself for the puck drop to start the game, I watched Quinn on the right wing. He turned his head toward the bench to note any last-minute adjustments from Coach. He was eager to prove himself.

I nodded briefly, my silent signal of support. Regardless of my personal opinions, he would perform best if he could feel part of the team. My opinion, as an acknowledged mentor to many of the young players, carried weight.

The referee's hand dropped, and the puck tumbled to the ice. My concentration narrowed to the sound of the sticks and the sight of the black puck sliding across the rink.

Our center made the first contact and flicked the puck toward Quinn. With a clean catch against his stick, he sent it back to me.I easily received the pass and quickly scanned the ice, mapping the best path forward. I maneuvered it against my stick across the center line.

Quinn darted forward, weaving through the opposing team's defenders. He followed the play like a seasoned veteran, ready to jump on a stray puck or slip through a gap.

As I advanced, I sensed him moving into position. I flicked the puck toward the goal and aimed just wide enough for Quinn to grab the pass on the fly.

He intercepted it, pulled his stick back, and whipped a shot at the net. The goalie, caught off guard by the sudden one-two play, scrambled to protect the net. He was too late, and the puck flew past him. We'd drawn first blood, and the crowd exploded with approval.

Quinn turned toward me with a triumphant smile and threw his arms in the air. I let a rare smile take over my face, excited by our flawless execution. I'd helped the kid make a statement in the first period of his first game. A surge of pride hit me.

When we skated to the bench for the line change, the crowd chanted our names. It was a clear reminder that the game wasn't only about us, the players. It was about the fans, too, and their right to have a successful hockey franchise.

Coach Fraser clapped Quinn on the back, and his teammates added pats on the helmet. I knew he could quickly become one of the stars of the Lumberjacks' inaugural season.

As the game unfolded, the initial rush of Quinn's hotshot performance waned. It gave way to the harsh reality of a fast-paced NHL game. When the pressure intensified, he wasn't quite as sharp. I watched as he hesitated, and his passes missed their intended receiver.

After his early success, the opposing team targeted him with more aggressive defense, which threw him off his game. His shoulders tensed, and crucial errors began to emerge.

From my perspective, each small mistake started to stack up and build a wall of frustration. I lost my cool when I watched him fumble an ordinary pass, leading to a turnover that the opponents used to nearly score a goal.

During the next timeout, I pulled Quinn aside, leading him away from our teammates' curious ears. My words were more harsh than I intended, colored by the intensity of my frustration.

"You need to watch your six out there. This is a game. It isn't practice anymore." I growled and watched his face tense, his trademark confidence replaced by glistening eyes. He did his best to mask it with a quick nod of determination.

Seconds after I spoke, I regretted my words. He was a rookie, and rookies made mistakes. Quinn needed guidance, not criticism, but it was too late to retract the comments. Time out was nearly over, and the game was on the line. We needed to focus.

We led by only one goal as the time ticked off the clock in the final period. Every play was critical. Fans sat on the edges of their seats and held their breath.

The puck headed my way as we won a crucial face-off. I scanned the ice, evaluating the positioning of every player. Quinn was back and elevated his game from the earlier lull.

I barreled up the ice with the puck, exploiting a gap in the opposing team's arrangement. Playing as a defenseman, I was rarely in the position to score, but I spotted an unusual opening. It was the opportunity to put an exclamation point on our impending victory.

Quinn cleverly diverted attention to my right, drawing one of the key defenders to him. I seized the moment and feinted to the left before making my move.

The goalie anticipated a pass from me to Quinn, who circled back to the front of the net. Instead, I took the shot, a hard, low drive that slid through a narrow opening between the goalie'spads. The crowd's roar drowned out the puck hitting the back of the net as the buzzer ending the game echoed through the arena.

While the team began to pile up around me, I skated over to Quinn. His sunshiny smile was back. "Great shot, Axel!" he shouted over the noise.

"Good recovery out there, rookie." I clapped him on the shoulder. "Way to keep your head in the game."

The crowd yelled, stomped their feet, and joyfully hugged each other. As I skated off the ice, the enormity of the victory coaxed out a smile from me.

Back in the locker room, Quinn basked in the glow of compliments from his teammates. The brief moment of doubt I observed in the game was long gone. He was ready to climb the ladder to hockey stardom.

I stood back from the celebration and observed it all with detached satisfaction. In my early days in the NHL, I would have joined in, but harsh experiences left me wary of too much connection with my fellow hockey players.

Coach Fraser summoned his flair for drama. He waved a bottle of champagne. "Gather round, men! That was one hell of a game." He briefly looked my way, a moment of acknowledgment of my contributions. "Axel, this one's for you. That goal was one for the books!" He popped the cork, and the champagne sprayed in every direction.

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