Page 115 of For the Boys
Coach stared at him for a beat, his entire body still. “Okay,” he said finally. “Here’s what we do.”
He proceeded to lay out a plan of attack that surprised Brent with its intricacy.
Brent considered himself a well-rounded player, a two-way player, almost as good on defense as he was at forward. Coach agreed with this sentiment, which meant Brent was the first player tapped to pull double duty for the next twenty minutes of game play.
“Okay,” Coach said, furiously scribbling on the whiteboard in front of him. “I want Rat, Grey, Cole, Mitch, and Brent out there to start. Jean, you’re going to be taking about minute and a half shifts with Mitch. Can you handle that?”
Brent nodded. He was in peak physical shape; he could do this.
Coach proceeded to list off more combinations, splitting the top two defensive pairs and pairing them off with a forward. Chase wound up with Parker, and down the line they went. Coach broke down the assignments, noting who he wanted to operate the point positions, wings, and net-front presence. He explained what he wanted them to do, how they would draw the Tritons away to generate scoring lanes.
The Warriors were buzzing when they headed back down the tunnel, stepping onto the ice with more energy and renewed determination.
Brent, Rat, Grey, Cole, and Mitch huddled up near the bench.
“Twenty minutes, boys,” Brent said. “Let’s do this.”
He fist-bumped each of his teammates in turn and skated to center ice.
Despite the team’s protestations, the unorthodox strategy hit paydirt less than five minutes into the period.
When the scoring chance arrived, Brent almost wasn’t even on the ice. At that point, his earlier confidence in his athleticism was wavering. His legs and lungs were burning, and he was unsure he could skate another five seconds much less fifteen minutes.
“Jean!” Mitch yelled from behind him. Brent, who had been inches away from going over the boards for a change, turned to his teammate. Mitch whipped the puck his way from the corner, and the moment it touched Brent’s stick, time slowed.
In reality, the entire sequence took about five seconds, but for Brent, it was as if someone had hit pause on the game and he could see the entire scene laid out with perfect clarity in front of him.
The second the puck hit his tape and he began to move, two Tritons players were on him, the rest of their teammates in the midst of a change. On the far side of the neutral zone, near the Tritons’ bench, Grey skated slowly toward their offensive zone like a child tiptoeing around the house late at night, using the Tritons change to mask his movements.
Brent entered the zone, puck ahead of him, and as soon as he did, Grey took off like a shot, streaking toward the net.
The Tritons never saw him coming, despite their goalie screaming his head off at them. Brent waited until the last possible second, until right before it would’ve been too late, and slid a pass his way. Grey was ready for it, receiving the pass and tapping it top shelf into a wide-open net, sailing over the outstretched glove of the goalie.
“FUCK YEAH!” Brent yelled, plowing into Grey and wrapping him in a hug. “Nice shot, kid!”
“Nice pass!” Grey said, grinning from ear to ear. Their teammates caught up and joined in on the celebration before skating over the bench to receive congratulatory fist bumps from the rest of the team.
During Brent’s next shift, he hopped on the ice after a stoppage in play. The face-off was taking place in their own end, to the left of Roberts.
One of the Tritons had bumped the net though, knocking it off its posts, so the refs paused play while it was fixed. Brent heard someone say his name.
Turning, he found himself face to face with Josef Bobal, one of the dirtiest players in the league. He was the player responsible for a hit that had taken Grey out for ten games the previous season, and not a single Warriors player had forgotten about it. Brent was almost grateful the refs had hardly let the game flow tonight, for it kept Bobal’s nastier instincts in check.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Bobal said.
“What for?” Brent asked.
“I saw on Instagram that you got yourself a hot little girlfriend,” Bobal said with a smirk and suggestive eyebrow wiggle. “I can see the allure. But does she know about your women in other cities?”
“There are no women in other cities,” Brent said through gritted teeth.
“Sure there aren’t,” Bobal said with a wink. “Mind if I take a crack at your girl next time we’re in Detroit?”
“Of course I mind,” Brent said, standing up straighter. Although he was a couple inches taller than Bobal, the man weighed about twenty pounds more. It would be a fair fight. “You stay the fuck away from her.”
“Or what, Jean? I’m sure she’d be happy to let me take her for a ride. She’s gotta be just like every other puck bunny, right?”
“Wrong,” Brent said and punched him in the face. Bobal’s head snapped back, and his helmet clattered to the ice.
