Page 50 of Penalty Box
As if by reflex, I glanced at Coach. He gave Hunter a stiff nod, and play went on. He, like the rest of us, were more than satisfied with Hunter’s turn in the poles.
The whistle sang, and every shift was brutal. Bodies slammed against glass, blades caught and tangled. The puck was nothing but a blur between sticks.
And me… Damn, I was everywhere. Backchecking, grinding the corners, taking hits that rattled my old injury. But I gave back twice as hard.
In the second period, I scored.
Tucker fired it from the point, and I tipped it midair. Nothing but instinct and muscle memory. It hit the post, ricocheted behind the goalie, and the red light flared. I didn’t even celebrate. Just turned and looked to the crowd until I found my dad and Hallie, jumping up and down like crazy. It lit me up better than any spotlight.
Things got ugly in the third period.
The same Dallas forward who clipped Hunter before came barreling into Grayson, elbow up, high and dirty. I didn’t even think. Dropped my gloves and charged.
We hit the ice in a flurry of fists. I got in the first two punches, straight to the gut and one to the jaw. But he caught me under my right eye with an uppercut that blurred my vision. I didn’t care. He wasn’t going to walk out of here thinking he could cheap shot my team and breathe easy after.
The refs finally dragged us apart, blood on my lip, adrenaline screaming through my veins.
I caught Cass’ eye as I skated to the box. She shook her head, but wasn’t mad about it. She seemed almost proud. I winked, and she dipped her head with a shy smile.
Overtime came fast. We were tied 3-3, bodies sagging, legs spent on both sides. Grayson and I lined up one last time, and Coach yelled from the bench, “Now or never, boys.”
“Now feels good,” Grayson said, out of breath.
“Then now it is.” I tapped his stick with mine.
Shawn fed Grayson from the neutral zone. He cut across the blue line, drawing both defenders. I streaked in from the right, tape to tape, and received the puck. One touch, one shot.
Bar down. Goal.
Game over.
The Frost Bank Center went berserk. The crowd was so loud I was sure the whole place would crumble down around us. If it did, I wouldn’t have noticed. The guys engulfed me with slaps to my helmet, my body, nearly celebrating me to the ice.
But better than the feeling of sneaking a late win, was the chanting of my name rising up through the chaos of it all. Even better, was the look on my dad’s face when it happened.
*
The locker room was a war zone of celebration.
Sweaty gear tossed every which way, half the team stripped down to compression shorts and grinning like lunatics. Someone turned up the music, and Tucker was already butchering lyrics to some rap track, jumping around with his stick like a microphone. Grayson slapped my back hard enough to jar the bruise under my shoulder blade.
“Legend,” he said.
Even Coach—our steel-plated, never-crack-a-smile leader of the hour—gave me a nod and clapped my shoulder.
“That’s the kind of grit that earns you a letter,” he said low enough so only I could hear. “Keep your head on straight.”
A letter. Jesus. I’d never even imagined becoming Captain of the team.
I laughed and fist-bumped a few guys, but the noise had started to throb in my skull. It was like each shout bounced around inside me like a puck off the boards. I ducked out before anyone noticed.
Out in the hallway, the air was cooler. Cleaner. Echoing from the empty concourse and the soft rumble of the Zamboni still circling the ice. I made my way through a side tunnel until the rink opened up in front of me again, vacant now. The insane roar of the crowd was only a ghost in the rafters.
Cass had her hoodie up, probably buds in her ears blasting some rock band from the ‘70s while she finished up on the ice.
I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the ledge, and just stared out.
This was happening.
