Page 18 of Scoring Zone
At first, I think the team is off because of me, but it becomes clear it isn’t our night. Griff’s serving his suspension from the game, Benz is flakier than usual, and we’re not gelling.
“We’re still in this.” I stalk the bench. “Let’s find the back of the net.”
On my next shift, I take my own advice and send Drake a quick pass in front of the net. He flicks his wrist, and I’m sure it’s going in, but the goalie gets an arm on it. Lucky’s there to tap the deflection in past the stunned goalie.
The three of us meet for a hug, and I smack Lucky’s helmet. “Way to get it done.”
It wasn’t pretty, but we’re on the board.
Gray hands me a water bottle as I vault over the boards to the bench. “Way to give’r.” When I don’t respond, he continues. “No pass, no goal. You started the play, Lucky finished it.”
“You bet.” I guzzle the water. It wasn’t the assist I’d expected, but my stats don’t matter as long as the team wins.
King is everywhere on his shift. Defending like a champ, stealing the puck, but his line isn’t as effective without Griff. King shoots, but it ricochets off the top bar. Benz grumbles as if the net personally offended him. Goalies are weird about the pipes.
I meet King at the wall with water, and Drake appears next to me.
“It happens to the best of us,” he consoles King.
King nods in acknowledgment. “I shoulda had it.”
“You’ll get it in next time.” I truly believe it. He’s already a crucial part of this team and will definitely be the future as I get older. I dismiss that thought. I’ve got years ahead of me. Retirement is too many years off to count.
“Drake, how are the ribs?” Grayson asks.
“All good,” he responds and hops over the boards.
After a shift in the third period, Grayson nudges me. “What about you? Any aches or pains to report?”
“Nah, just a bruised ego.” I haven’t scored, and my team is down by a goal. It’s my job to fire the guys up and score.
“You’re not a one-man team. Go easy on yourself.” He pats my arm as he walks away.
On my next shift, the trash-talking escalates. “I hear you won’t fight. Just a momma’s boy in a hockey uniform,” a defender taunts me.
I’m unfazed, but Lucky pushes his defender off the puck, and it’s a good thing the ref missed it. “Are the taunts below the belt?” I ask after the ref blows the whistle.
“Nah, just annoying.” Lucky skates into position, and I have to take him at his word. As the captain, it’s my job to report slurs and other issues to the refs.
King ties the game up on his next shift, but they score again, putting us behind by one.
I take my position on the line for the face-off and ignore their winger grinning at me. He looks maniacal. Drake steals the face-off, and the play starts as usual. Their winger stays on me instead of a defender picking me up. We’re a mismatch and Drake notices.
I skate wide and receive Drake’s pass to dish it back to him, and he reroutes it to Lucky. Lucky skates around the net with the puck, and I’m in position, but my legs are taken out from behind.
The whistle blows, but their winger has me pinned down.
“You gonna fight me now?” he growls.
Before I can respond, Drake is there, ripping him off me, and Lucky helps me to my feet. The guy drops his gloves, and Drake strips his off.
The darkness rears up. This is my fight, and I’m not letting Drake possibly get hurt defending me.
It’s not a choice; it’s instinct. I don’t remember taking my gloves off, but they’re not on when I’m yanked off the ice and he stays down, curled in a ball.
There’s a thin streak of red on the ice, which means everything stops. Drake is pushing me back, but I’m horrified by what I’ve done. My mind flashes back to breaking my rival’s rib. I listen for his breathing and don’t hear anything.
“He’s not moving?” I panic.
