Page 28 of Chasing The Goal
And God, it felt like magic.
The puck connected with my stick like an extension of my body. Every stride was a victory. I dug hard into the corners, fed perfect passes to the wings, and kept my zone clean like I’d never missed a second.
The second period started with a faceoff at center ice. I was lined up beside Darren—our second-year firecracker who had more energy than sense most nights—and across from him was Carolina’s goon of the evening, a forward with more mouth than game.
Darren turned toward Connor, who’d just skated into position on defense, and called, “Hey Cap, think I can score if I close my eyes and pray?”
Connor didn’t even glance back. “Try it. Maybe God’s the only one who’ll pass to you.”
The bench howled. Darren just shook his head and grinned. “That’s cold, man. Real cold.”
The puck dropped, and Darren exploded into motion, charging down the ice like he had rockets in his skates. Hetook a sloppy wrist shot that rebounded hard off the pads and came flying toward Connor.
Connor collected it smoothly, then barked, “You call that a shot or were you just trying to warm the goalie up?”
“Shut up and pass it back, old man!”
Connor flicked the puck toward the blue line, clean and quick. “I’ll pass when your aim doesn’t suck.”
They kept it up the entire shift, trash-talking, chirping, driving the Cats nuts. And it worked.
One of their forwards got sloppy, took a dumb penalty, and we went on the power play.
Back on the bench, Darren plopped down beside me, breathing hard. “If Connor chirps me one more time, I’m telling his fiancée he cried during Marley & Me.”
I snorted. “He did cry during Marley & Me. That’s documented.”
“Still got the game tape,” Connor added from down the bench, totally unfazed. “And I looked damn good doing it.”
Darren just grinned. “Fair.”
The scoreboard ticked up: 3-0. Then 4. Then 5.
By the end of the game, the Hellblades had annihilated the Cats. Final score: 5-0. And I’d been out there for three of those goals.
As the horn sounded, the bench emptied in a tidal wave of elation. Logan tackled me into the boards, helmets clashing, both of us grinning like idiots.
“Dude, you crushed it out there,” he said.
I caught my breath, high on the win and the noise and everything in between. “You weren’t so bad yourself, hat trick hero.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, already grabbing the game puck from the ref. “But tonight wasn’t about me.”
I raised a brow. “No?”
He shoved the puck into my chest. “Welcome back, Prescott.”
For a second, I couldn’t say anything. I just stared at the puck in my hand and the way Logan was grinning like I’d just scored the game-winner in Game Seven.
“Thanks, man,” I said finally, voice rough.
We skated off the ice to the thunder of the crowd and the smell of victory. But somewhere between the locker room showers and the rush of celebration, all I could think about was the way Mallory had looked at me before the game.
And how badly I wanted to see that look again.
Jaymie
The post-game buzz stillthrummed in my veins as I stepped out of the locker room, the echoes of laughter and victory chants chasing behind me. We’d crushed the Carolina Cats 5–0, Logan bagged a hat trick, and I didn’t completely implode on my first game back. I'll call that adamn good night.
