Page 92 of Pucking One Night Stand
The ref’s arm twitches. The puck drops.
I don’t hear it hit the ice. Don’t need to. My body’s already moving, blade cutting deep, left leg driving me forward.
I track the blur of black rubber like a predator eyeing it’s pray.
The Blades take possession, their center snapping it back and twisting like he’s been rewound and hit play at triple speed.
They're fast. Not just fast, but deliberate. Each pass snaps from tape to tape, blades cutting crossovers so tight they kick ice into our zone like shrapnel.
I stay low and shadow their winger. He tries to shake me with a spin, but I match him stride for stride.
His stick twitches. I’m there.
Clack.
I knock the puck loose, but he’s not the one that picks it up; his D-man’s already there, feeding it up the boards.
My legs burn. I ignore it.
We’re six minutes deep, and it’s a goddamn war already.
McCullum signals. Brody’s off. Richards jumps the boards.
I catch the swap out of the corner of my eye—Brody’s jaw tight, Richards already in motion.
He grabs a puck off the wall, spins, fires one low—pad save. Rebound kicked out.
Richards digs again, threads it to Jett—snap shot, just wide.
We’re pressing.
Two minutes later, Brody’s back. Richards taps out.
I catch Brody’s eyes as he skates past, he’s locked in now.
Then it happens.
Turnover.
Jett tries to sauce it to Brody, but it clips off a skate, wrong bounce, wrong second.
The Blades’ sniper scoops it up and rifles one off his stick before anyone even shouts.
A streak of black.
McAvoy’s glove flashes, but too late.
“BRRRROOONNNK!”
The horn detonates. The red light blasts to life behind him.
1–0.
The crowd roars, angry, not ecstatic. This is our house. We don’t take that shit lying down.
Whistle. End of the first.
In the second period I barely even get two strides into my shift before number 13—same bastard from earlier—angles at me like a wrecking ball with a grudge.
