Page 99 of The Home Grown
“Cover the slot,” Johnny shouts back at me as he breaches the blue line.
And I do. Focus and concentration.
I throw my body against my mark as I survey the play, trying to work out his next move. All it takes is a rogue pass in my direction and I shift my weight, leaning forward and diverting the puck, sending it through the air back towards Johnny, who whacks it around the boards to a waiting Prez.
“Good job,” he says, as we fall back, positioning ourselves on the point.
Lee sends it out of play, and we’re forced to take a face-off in the neutral zone.
Focus, Betts. Focus.
“If Lee gets it, I’ll quick up,” Johnny says before he circles into position. “Follow my lead.”
And of course, Lee flicks it back towards Johnny, who executes as planned, sending a sharp pass towards Prez to initiate a rush. I watch Prez move forward for a split second before I clock their right defenceman, watching his reaction.
He pinches aggressively, trying to disrupt Prez. But Prez is fast—too fast for him. Prez pokes it past him. The footrace for possession is on, and I know I need to stay back—wait for the turnover I can feel coming.
Focus, Betts. Focus.
It’s Johnny who gets my attention next. He’s calling for support, and I have to push forward to protect against a counterattack.
But that’s when Prez takes a heavy check into the boards, losing the battle as he crashes to the ice. My eyes widen as I watch him, waiting for him to move, relieved as he clambers to his skates as the puck is snatched away, an opposing forward gaining possession. He breaks away, flying at speed towards the neutral zone.
This is on me. This is my play.
I barely have a second to react. I burst to life, keeping up pace with him as I aim to cut him off. I use my body to block his movement, creating a barrier. I hold him off just long enough for Johnny to get there, taking position close enough to Ffordey.
Mr Offensive fires it, and Johnny’s shin becomes the point of deflection, sending it into the air and out of play.
That’s our sign to change up. I glide back to the bench with Johnny on my heel.
“Nice play, bud,” he says. “Honestly, it surprises me you had to wait so long for a Team GB slot.”
I look up at the clock, checking how long I need to keep things cool before replying to Johnny.
“Well, yeah, I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not all sunshine and roses.”
Our backup nettie holds the bench door open and we hustle, taking our seats as the play resets. I reach for a towel, running it over my visor before tossing it aside and grabbing a water bottle, keen to keep myself busy.
“Langdon? I thought you said practices were fine?” he says. “He’s not been giving you shit, has he?”
“Well, they’ve been bearable. He’s hardly said a word, if I’m honest. And that’s probably what’s putting me on edge. He doesn’t seem his usual shitty self. It’s like waiting for a ticking time-bomb to detonate.”
Johnny shrugs. “He’s probably feeling the pressure.”
We lean forward, looking out on the ice as the face-off is taken, watching in eager anticipation as Danny wins the battle and sends it back to the third line defenceman on his left.
“Maybe. But I don’t care enough to think about it. I guess I’ll see how things go.”
The truth is, I can’t think about it. My mental capacity is teetering on the edge. I’m using all my energy to focus on the game, not what the Team GB schedule looks like, nor what?—
“This is it…” Johnny says, snapping me back to the game. I blink, expecting to see something triumphant, but instead, I realise that this is very muchnotit.
The puck flies in slow motion, connecting with the crossbar and rebounding off with aclinkand it lands at the feet of an opposing forward. He takes a beat to react, looking between the puck and the empty stretch of ice in front of him, then he bursts at speed, breaking away.
Right up the ice towards a lonely-looking Ffordey.
ELLIE
