Page 95 of Pucking One Night Stand
“Alright, shut up and listen. You’re giving them too much room at the blue line. Press higher. They’re not faster than you, they’re just smarter right now.”
Bishy breathes hard next to me, his helmet tipped back and red-faced.
“They’re baiting us wide,” Danny cuts in, wiping sweat off his brow with a wrist. “Pull the trap inside. Stack the slot andcollapse fast. They can’t get rebounds if they never reach the crease.”
“We’re not getting bullied in our own barn,” McCullum snarls. “You wanna cry about missed calls or play like your paycheck’s on the goddamn line?”
“I vote paycheck,” Brody spits, his eyes blazing.
“Then start acting like it.”
I step forward, chest heaving. “COME ON!” I roar over the crowd. “Remember what we said—THIS IS FOR THUMPER!”
Sticks bang against the boards.
The noise is deafening.
We push back out. Third period.
The cold hits like a slap. The noise swells again. The fans are back in it, clawing for a reason to believe.
We don’t wait.
Four minutes in, Brody gets wrecked along the boards. It’s blatant. Stick to the ribs, elbow to the jaw, crumples him right to the ice.
No call.
“Jesus Christ. What are you blind?” I skate toward the ref, shouting.
Nothing. He glides away, uninterested.
Brody’s already up. Furious. Bleeding from his lip, eyes locked forward like a guided missile.
He tracks the puck and steals it clean with one swipe. No hesitation.
He weaves through one. Then another. D-man tries to block, but Brody juts left, slashing through the middle.
Snap.
That puck rips off his stick like a shot out of a cannon.
Straight through their goalie’s five-hole.
“BRRRROOONNNK!”
2–3.
The place ignites.
The crowd’s stomping, screaming, and banners shake from the rafters.
We’ve got them nervous now.
McCullum signals—Peters off, Merce on.
Merce jumps the boards, calm as ever.
Jett wins a faceoff. Peters banks it off the glass. I chase it deep, pressure their D. He panics. Coughs it up.
