Page 100 of The New Guy
“Step lively, New Guy!” Castro says, poking me in the ass with his stick. “Let’s bring some doom down upon these goons from Philly.”
“Bring the doom!” someone else brays as we move in a heavily padded column toward the tunnel.
The crowd sounds grow wild as we clomp across the rubber floor pads and into the brightly lit arena. I step out onto the ice at a sprint, my skates biting the slick surface as I pump forward. Twenty thousand fans scream for Brooklyn. I’m going to give them something to scream about, too.
We skate our warm-ups, and then a gospel choir sings the national anthem. With my hand on my heart, I center myself. And I visualize the game ahead of me. Philly gets a lot of mileage out of their quick center, so tonight I’m going to become his worst nightmare. That’s my job. I’m good at my job.
And after the playoffs, Brooklyn’s GM will be clamoring to offer me a new contract with all the fixings.
When it’s time for the face-off, my focus narrows to the men in front of me, and the puck the ref suddenly drops. Trevi wins it, firing it back to me.
And I’m off, skating like a demon, finding an opportunity to advance it to our winger. And then I get in the center’s face. His name is Cuzkic. Nickname Cujo, of course, because hockey players are easily amused.
But Cujo is going to be whimpering like a week-old puppy when I’m through with him.
For the first period, I’m merely frustrating. Doggedly, obsessively frustrating, though, as I stick to him like bubblegum on the sidewalk.
I make it nearly impossible for him to pass the puck in a productive way. And when the buzzer rings at the end of the period, it’s a zero-zero game.
“Good work,” Coach says to me in the dressing room. “Brilliant. Keep it up, and when he finally cracks, be ruthless.”
“Yessir.”
“Fluids, boys,” Henry prods us, walking around the room with a tray of paper cups. “Water, energy drinks, juice. Something for everyone.”
I gulp down some water, but I’m already feeling great. I go back out for the second period ready for more.
Cujo puts up a good fight. He’s wily. He varies his routine, trying to shake me.
But I am nothing if not patient. I’ve been waiting years to make my mark on this game, and I could keep this up all night long.
Late in the second period, it finally happens. Cujo gets tired—mentally as well as physically. When I block yet another pass, he lets his anger overrule his patience. So I double down and crowd his personal space.
Instead of backing off for another try, he yanks me out of the way, his hand gripping my jersey.
I fall, but knock the puck out of his reach on my way down.
Castro swoops in, grabs it and skates hard toward the goal. I don’t breathe as Philly’s D-man closes in on him. But Castro fires toward the net.
The whole stadium gasps as it streaks right past the post and goes in.
Twenty thousand people scream as the lamp lights, and the ref blows the whistle.
Delayed penalty on Philly.
I hop to my feet. Then I tilt my face toward the rafters and cheer. “Thanks for that laugh, Cujo.”
“Cocksucker,” he jeers.
Only when I’m lucky, dude.
Then I hear the announcer call the first goal of these playoffs.
And the assist goes to me.
* * *
There are no easy games, though, and the third period is tense. Philly ties it up, and then we answer back with another goal. When the final buzzer rings, it’s 2-1 in our favor.
