Page 112 of The Beautiful Collision
Tied game. One minute left. Everything we’ve worked for in the balance.
The crowd is deafening now—a living thing, pressing in from all sides, vibrating through the boards and into my skates. I can feel it in my chest, rattling my ribs. My legs are screaming, lactic acid burning through my quads. My lungs can’t get enough oxygen through my mouth guard. Sweat stings my eyes.
This is everything I’ve ever wanted. This moment, right here.
The opposing team—Princeton—they’re good.
Really fucking good.
They’ve got three guys who are locks to be drafted to the NHL, including their center, who’s built like a brick shithouse. We’ve been trading chances all game, both goalies at the top of their game. Rook’s made saves that shouldn’t be physically possible. Their goalie’s done the same.
But someone has to break. Someone always breaks.
They win the faceoff in our zone and immediately set up their power play formation, because even though it’s even strength, they’re that confident. The puck moves with surgical precision: D to D, down low, back to the point. They’re looking for the perfect shot.
Their defenseman winds up, and time slows down.
I see it all: the flex of his stick, the puck leaving the blade like a black bullet, and Rook sliding across the crease. There’s traffic in front—Cooper and their center tangled up, Schmidt trying toclear the screen. The puck blazes through it all, heading for the top corner where the post meets the crossbar.
The spot every goalie has nightmares about.
No.
But Rook—beautiful, insane, brilliant Rook—flashes his glove up at an impossible angle. The puck disappears into white leather just as the horn sounds for a TV timeout with thirty seconds left, and everyone in the arena absolutely loses their collective fucking mind.
“HOLY FUCK!” I scream, though no one can hear me over the crowd.
Rook casually flips the puck to the ref like he didn’t just save our entire season, but I see his hand shaking slightly as he pushes his mask up to grab water. That save took everything he had, and he clearly knows he was both lucky and won’t be able to do it again.
We huddle at the bench. Coach is trying to diagram something on his whiteboard, but honestly, we all know what the play is. Win the draw, control the puck, and look for one good chance. Don’t force it, but don’t be passive either. The kind of advice that sounds simple until you’re out there.
“Hey.” Mike grabs my jersey, pulls me close enough that I can hear him. “Remember BC? Down three with five minutes left?”
I remember. Our first game together. His sophomore year. My junior.
We lost 7–2.
“We’ve come a long way since then,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my throat tight again. “It’s been an honor, brother.”
“Mike—“
“Thirty seconds to make it count,” he continues. “One shift. Our shift. We started this together. We finish it together.”
Coach sends us over the boards for the offensive-zone faceoff. Our best offensive unit, the one that’s carried us all season. The ref holds the puck between Schmidt and the Princeton center. The guy’s got four inches and thirty pounds on Schmidt, but Erik’s got that quiet intensity that makes him dangerous.
Everything narrows to this circle of ice.
This moment.
The puck drops.
Schmidt wins it clean, sweeping it back to me.
The second the puck hits my stick, two Princeton players converge. They know my shot, becauseeveryoneknows my shot. It’s what got me noticed by NHL scouts, what makes me dangerous from anywhere in the offensive zone. Their game plan is obvious: take away my shooting lanes, force me to make a pass.
Three weeks ago, I would have tried to split them. Would have forced something spectacular because that’s what Maine Hamilton does. He makes the highlight reel play. He’s the star. The prancing pony. The guy who wants to carry everyone on his back.
The Maine Show.
