Page 77 of The Last Guy On Earth
It doesn’t take long. Their winger fires a quick snapshot from the slot, but I’m ready. I track it all the way, snagging it cleanly with my glove. The familiar smack of rubber hitting leather hits me like a drug.
“Gorgeous!” Kapski shouts as he skates by.
I clear the puck to the corner and play resumes. Our guys seem to find their rhythm again. We manage to keep Montreal to the outside for a few shifts, but they’re persistent.
With about two minutes left in the period, they catch us on a bad line change. Suddenly it’s a two-on-one rush, gunning for me. Their center carries the puck, eyes darting between his winger and my net.
There might be twenty thousand pairs of eyes on me, but that’s not what I’m thinking about as time slows. This is really just a math problem. Angles and timing. The center’s decision versus my reaction.
I’ve been here so many times before. I’m ready when the center makes a perfect pass across to the winger. As the winger winds up for the one-timer, I push hard to my right, extending every inch of my body.
The puck leaves his stick like a rocket. For a heart-stopping moment, I think I’ve overcommitted. But then I feel it—the satisfying thud of the puck hitting my pad. I kick it out to the neutral zone, and our defenseman clears it down the ice.
The Montreal crowd groans in disappointment, but I hear our bench erupt behind me. As I get back to my feet, I catch Clay’s eye. He gives me a quick nod that’s all relief.
“Keep pushing, kids!” I shout, tapping my stick on the ice. “It ain’t over.”
For the game. Or for me.
Two hours later, we lose the game. But we lose in overtime. That’s right—my boys battled the score to 3-3 by the end of regulation time. I made at least thirty saves, and I didn’t let a single goal in until the game-winner, when Montreal got an ugly goal off a messy rebound situation.
After the buzzer, I’m drenched with sweat and almost too tired to skate off the ice. But I’m also…
Whatisthis mysterious emotion I’m feeling?
It might actually be joy. Huh.
Before I reach the tunnel, Kapski hug-tackles me. “Some losses feel like wins,” he says, thumping me on the back. “You left it all on the ice tonight.”
He’s right, and I’m already feeling the effects. But it’s the good kind of exhaustion—the kind that means I’ve earned it.
I make a beeline for the dressing room and take off my skates. I want a shower, but I’m waylaid by Tate as he leads two journalists toward my stall. “Mr. Hale, do you have a moment?” Tate asks.
There’s only one acceptable answer. “Of course.” I rise to my tired feet and wax on a smile.
“That was an impressive performance tonight,” says the guy from ESPN. “What would you say turned your game around?”
I’m too tired to laugh, but it’s tempting. It’s such a backhanded compliment.Why didn’t you stink it up out there again tonight, Mr. Hale?And because I still have a teenage sense of humor, my gaze jumps right to Clay, who’s standing a few paces away.
Athletes are superstitious people, and it’s tempting to credit this win to the nonverbal pep talk Clay gave me after my last disaster of a game.
“Well.” I chuckle, sounding exhausted. “Every slump has to end sometime, doesn’t it?”
Unfortunately, he isn’t completely satisfied with that answer. “What have you and the coaching staff been working on since you arrived in Colorado?” He shoves the mic into my face again.
I glance at Clay again, and inwardly snicker. “Just the basics,” I say with a straight face. “Drills in the net and physical conditioning. They’ve been very patient with me. But I’ve been playing in this barn for years, and all that experience has to kick in sometime, right?”
Behind me, somewhere in my gear, my phone starts ringing. My family wouldn’t call me at this hour if it weren’t important. I reach back and paw around until I find it. I check the screen, and it readsMAPLEWAY REHAB CENTER.
“What is your goal for the rest of the season?” another journalist asks.
“Um…” I hit Accept with my thumb. “I’m really sorry. I have to take this.”
Over the journalist’s shoulder, Tate frowns at me. Then he makes a slashing motion with his hand.
“Ireallyhave to take this,” I insist, and he scowls. “Sorry.” I slide around the reporters and edge toward the corridor leading to the showers. “Hello? Shelby?”
“Hi,” she says, and I can barely hear her. “It’s me. I watched your game.”
