Page 142 of No Contest
The game stayed tight. They tied it midway through the second on a power play goal that deflected off MacLaren's skate. We answered three minutes later when Jake made a pass, finding Evan in the slot for a one-timer that beat their goalie clean.
2-1 Storm.
Then they scored again with forty seconds left in the period, their captain going top shelf on a breakaway after Desrosiers got caught pinching. Our goalie didn't have a chance.
2-2 going into the third.
In the locker room during intermission, nobody panicked. Jake paced, but that was his usual response. Evan made notesin his ever-present notebook, and Pickle ate half a banana while speaking about destiny.
I sat in my stall, shoulder throbbing where I'd taken a cross-check in the corner, and thought about Rhett, Margaret, and the kids in the stands.
Coach kept it simple. "Third period. Fastest twenty minutes of your lives. Leave everything on the ice."
We did.
Every shift was a war. They pressed, and we pushed back. Jake took a hit that left him gasping on the bench for thirty seconds before he hopped back over the doors. Evan blocked a slap shot with his shin and didn't even flinch. He chipped the puck out of the zone like it was a drill.
With five minutes left, Pickle almost ended the game. He got a step on their defenseman, went forehand-backhand, and rang iron so hard the entire building groaned.
"FUCK!" He slammed his stick against the ice.
"Next one!" I called from the bench.
The clock wound down. Forty seconds. Thirty. Twenty.
Neither team could break it.
Overtime.
Sudden death. The next goal would win.
The crowd stood—every single person—and the noise they raised was a living organism that made my bones vibrate. Coach sent out our top line in first—Jake, MacLaren, and Desrosiers. They spent ninety seconds in the offensive zone, cycling the puck with surgical precision, but their goalie held firm. Nothing got through.
When they came off, Jake was breathing hard. "Bastard's standing on his head."
"Keep shooting," Coach said. Simple. Direct.
Second shift. My line. Pickle on my wing.
The face-off was in their zone, left circle. I lined up across from their center—the same guy who'd tried to bait me into fighting earlier. He grinned at me through his cage.
"Last chance, Hawkins. Wanna go out a hero?"
"Already am one," I said. Pickle grabbed the puck as it dribbled out of the face-off.
My legs were cement. Lactic acid screamed through my quads, but Pickle was flying, and I had to keep up.
I planted myself in front of their net. Did what I'd been doing for twelve years—made myself big and annoying, sucking up the goalie's attention.
Pickle shot. The puck sailed high, hitting me square in the back, knocking the wind out of my lungs for a heartbeat.
It bounced toward the corner. Pickle chased it down—three guys on him, all bigger. He centered it. I tipped it.
The puck deflected off my blade, changed direction, and headed toward the top corner where goalies go to die—
Their goalie got a piece of it. Barely. Enough to deflect it high.
The rebound came out hard and fast, bouncing off the glass behind the net. Their defenseman collected it and chipped it out of the zone.
