Page 76 of The Last Guy On Earth
Just past the eight-minute mark, we get our first power play. This is our chance to swing the momentum. Kapski wins the face-off cleanly, and we set up in Montreal’s zone. For a minute, it looks promising. We’re moving the puck well, creating chances.
Then disaster strikes. Newgate’s pass gets intercepted, and suddenly Montreal’s on a shorthanded breakaway. The whole bench leans forward as we watch their forward bear down on Walcott.
The kid comes out to challenge, but he’s a split second late. The forward dekes, Walcott bites, and...
Red light. The first blood of the night is spilled, and unfortunately, it’s ours.
I check Walcott’s face. He looks white.
“Shake it off, Walcott!” I call from the bench.
He mutters to himself. Resets his stance.
Our guys push back, but Montreal smells blood in the water. They’re all over us, peppering shots at our net. Walcott makes a glove save, and then deflects one with his stick. But he’s started to move jerkily, second-guessing himself.
Clay makes a noise of distress as Montreal’s winger fires a routine shot from the point, the kind Walcott could stop nine times out of ten.
But he hesitates, caught between blocking and catching, and the puck sails right past his glove. The lamp lights again, barely three minutes from the last goal.
The arena erupts. Walcott looks like he wants to melt into the ice.
I glance over at Clay, who’s conferring intensely with Murph. Two goals inside of ten minutes. On instinct, I start stretching. Neck rolls. Ankle movement. Calf stretches. I barely even realize I’m doing it.
The atmosphere in the arena shifts up another gear, the Montreal fans high on their early success and hungry for more.
Meanwhile, Walcott’s body language has completely changed. Gone is the cocky rookie from the start of the game. Now he’s hunched slightly, his movements jerky and uncertain. I can practically taste his anxiety from here.
Don’t give up like that, I mentally coach him.You’re so fucking young.
Clay makes a line change, hoping to slow things down and give Walcott a chance to regroup. For a few minutes, it seems to work. We manage to keep the puck in the neutral zone, trading harmless dumps back and forth.
But then Montreal’s star center intercepts a sloppy pass at their blue line. He streaks down the ice, our defensemen scrambling to catch up. Walcott comes out to challenge, but he’s too aggressive, too desperate to make up for the earlier goals.
When the center fakes a shot, Walcott drops into the butterfly, and I’m watching a horror movie, the kind where you want to shout at the screen—don’t open that dooooooor!
With a flick of his wrists, the Montreal center strikes, lifting the puck over Walcott’s shoulder. The goal horn blares for the third time in less than fifteen minutes.
The kid stays down on his knees, staring at the ice like he can’t believe that happened.
Clay strides down the bench. “Hale, you’re in,” he barks.
I’m already reaching for my mask and a water bottle. As I stand, I catch Walcott’s eye as he skates towards the bench. His face is pure devastation.
“Hey,” I say as he reaches the gate. “It happens. You’ll bounce back.”
He doesn’t reply, just gives a jerky nod.
Taking a deep breath, I glide onto the ice. The familiar chill hits me.
As I skate to the crease, I hear Clay’s voice behind me. “Lock it down, Hale.”
I tap the posts, settling into my stance. The ref is taking his time, so I look up into the nosebleed seats. They’re full. Montreal has one of the largest arenas in hockey, with over twenty thousand seats. I’ve stood here many times, often playing well, sometimes playing poorly.
What’s one more night, right? No reason to get too tangled up over it.
The puck drops, and I settle in. The scoreboard has my guys a little spooked. “Watch the corner, Newgate!” I call. “Move back, DiCosta!”
Montreal looks smug, and maybe a little too relaxed. We can work with that. I come out of the net a little bit, opening up my angles. Watching for Montreal’s first big challenge. They’ll test me to see if I’m as shaky as Walcott.
