Page 98 of The Home Grown
I livefor moments like this; they’re part of the reason I was so keen to pursue hockey professionally. The crowd, all chanting in unison. The prospect of winning a cup. The way my lungs burn from the effort.
But my favourite thing?
The perfect first stride when the ice is smooth—untouched. For a second, everything fades away. No noise. No lights. No chaos.
That moment of clarity. Where everything is as it should be.
Just me and the ice.
Except today it’s different. It doesn’t feel the same. I’m unsettled. Anxious. And it’s got nothing to do with this being the cup final.
“Ready?” Johnny asks.
I nod, trying to convince myself I’m focused, confident and fired up. As I take my place on the blueline for my first shift of the final period, I channel all my energy on one thing: defence. Forty-five seconds of high-intensity concentration and defence.
“Smart plays only,” Johnny says before taking his position on the left. I find my spot on the right, waiting for Liam to lean in to take the face-off.
There’s a pause. Then the ref blows his whistle. Then the puck drops.
The moment it hits the ice, Lee gains control and flicks it towards me with no hesitation. I accept the pass and play it back, keeping the puck close to the blade of my stick as I move in reverse. I’m letting the guys find their places, assessing the opposition. I wait for their positions to stabilise before I decide on my next move: a pass to Jani, waiting in the neutral zone.
It ricochets off the shin pad of one of their defencemen as Jani attempts a forward pass to Prez, right into the stick of an opposition winger, who takes control, moving in my direction.
“On me,” I call, and Johnny and I quickly adjust, falling back to cover the attack.
I fight to keep focus. Desperate to keep my head in the game.
The next few moments are a blur of motion. The opposing forward, trying to gain an edge, dangles the puck, trying to lure me in. But I stay patient, my body tense, knees bent. As he attempts a quick pass, I extend my stick to intercept, but he skates around me, sending the puck wide. The shot comes off his stick fast and slams into my shin guard with a jarring thud, knocking me off balance.
Okay, I may be a little distracted. There’s a tiny part of me thinking about that text message.
But I get back to my feet, wincing in pain, using that to concentrate on the game. I follow the direction of the puck, but there’s a rush, and I have no choice but to charge, knocking a forward into the boards with a satisfying rumble.
The volume of the crowd intensifies.
“Good block, bud, but let’s clear those rebounds faster,” Johnny says as we skate back to the bench half a minute later. “Remember, they’re looking for mistakes. Keep your focus and we’ve got this.”
He’s right. My focus is not what it should be. And I can’t afford to carry on this way. We’re tied 2-2 with around eighteen minutes left. It’s crucial I live in the moment.
Johnny and I take our places on the bench, leaning forward to watch the play progress, watching the movements of the opposition’s defence. But I’m struggling to invest.
Concentrate, Bettsy. Concentrate.
“He’s heavy on the forecheck today,” I say to Johnny, pointing towards their number four. But I only say it to keep on topic and to stop my mind from wandering.
“Ah shit,” Johnny says, leaning further forward. “This is our chance.”
We watch the sequence of play, keeping our attention on the ice as our attack moves up the ice, forcing their defence into action.
Clink.
The crowd makes a unanimous groan as the puck rebounds.
“Good pressure, though,” he says. “And now it’s up to us to keep it going.”
He nods his head towards the returning pair of defenceman, swinging his legs over the shelf as he waits for Jonesy to coast to the bench, and I do the same, hovering for a second longer until Yatesy is clear.
I hit the ice, joining the play on the transition to the offensive zone.
