Page 118 of Hockey Bois
“Whoever scores gets to drink out of the cup first, yes?” Guy said, eyes shining mischievously. He knew they were all motivated by beer as much as glory.
“That cup has been sitting in the rink office since last playoffs, gathering dust,” Benns pointed out.
“How dare you imply that would stop any of us,” Gail said.
“Y’all gonna talk or you gonna play?” the ref shouted with a bemused look from center ice. The other team was already lined up at the faceoff circle, eyeing them warily. They looked nervous, unsettled by the Jagr Bombs’ ease.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Gail muttered. She didn’t wait for the nod; she skated to her usual spot as right D.
“Guess that means I’m up,” Brady said as he skated after her.
Nick wanted,needed, to be out there, but he wasn’t going to push. He hung back, let the other forwards discuss a game plan, and then ultimately, it was Young Greg who insisted they go out once they saw Little Dube’s line waiting at center ice.
“Good luck!”
“Get that W!”
“Don’t fuck this up for us.”
“Hey, stay positive! But don’t fuck up!”
Nothing came out of the end of that first shift, nor the line after them. There were chances both ways, a post here, a block there, but none of them scored. Nick’s skin buzzed when he next lined up on the ice. It didn’t necessarily mean anything—he’d been wired all night—and he tried to ignore it. It was a distraction, and he wanted serenity right now. A deep breath in, out. In, out. In, hold it, out.
That inner peace came to him once the puck dropped. His body moved quickly, efficiently, but his mind was calm. He saw the plays before they developed, moved to intercept and break up their passes, made good passes of his own. He was his best hockey-playing self, which was all he could ask for.
No chances manifested, and he started to look for opportunities for a line change. The next draw or a dump-in would do, and when the puck came his way with no obvious chance at a breakaway, he collected it to toss it down the ice.
And then he found pressure on his back, something hard and solid knocking off his equilibrium and forcing him down to the ice. A warm body followed, and he came to the inescapable conclusion that he’d not only been cross-checked but outrighttackled.
He had the presence of mind to look for a ref. There should be no reasonable way that they wouldn’t see the puck carrier get bear-tackled from behind, but he had to be sure.
Sure enough, both refs had a hand up for a penalty. The puck was loose in front of him. In the corner of his eye, he saw the defensemen from the Mother Puckers rushing forward to grab it and get the whistle. Nick wrestled his stick free and swung wildly at it from the ground, swatting it blindly toward his own bench.
Benns jumped over, the extra man on the delayed penalty. He hit the ice and caught the puck mid-stride. He looked shaky, like he didn’t have his legs under him, but he had a good head start. The Mother Puckers tried to regroup. Too late they realized they’d pushed in, all their focus on getting the whistle and not on playing actual defense.
Benns was all clear, gaining speed and confidence on his breakaway. His head was down, concentrating on the puck and not aiming. Nick watched in horror as the goalie saw this and pushed out of his net to poke-check him.
The goalie slid out of net stick-first, aiming so that he’d take out Benns’s legs if he missed the puck.
Benns took a shot over the diving goalie, falling on top of him when they made contact.
The puck went right by the goalie’s lowered, useless stick toward the empty net. It was veering too far left, it’d miss entirely, but it was a solid effort—
It hit the post, ricocheted to the right, and went into the back of the net.
There was a full second, maybe two, of stunned silence before the rink filled with loud screams and cheers. The sound grew and grew, as loud and as satisfying as when the fans at Capital One Arena celebrated a win.
“Holy shit,” Nick muttered, still on the ice.
“Fuck,” he heard the guy on top of him mutter before Nick pushed him off. The guy was gone. Nick’s stick was gone. His gloves were gone. Nick was gone as he sprinted to Benns.
He wasn’t the first there, but he did get to help Benns back to his feet and hug him while screaming utter nonsense in his ears. As more and more of the team joined the frenzied celebration, they fell all over again. There were laughs, cheers, obscenities, and the increasingly impatient urging of the refs that they get in the handshake line because c’mon, the rest of them had to get home.
“Let’s get this over with,” the Mother Puckers’ captain said, nudging them with his stick. He looked utterly defeated, but he had the quiet forbearance of any good captain.
They lined up behind Guy, accepting the quiet congratulations from the other team and offering consolation in the form of “good game” with varying degrees of sincerity.
It was weird; it felt like his hockey story should be done. He’d bought the gear and learned how to skate. He’d joined a team, played in a league, played in a friggin’tournament. He’d gotten a hat trick, helped win a championship, and earned himself tons of bruises and a concussion. In less than a year, he’d lived out all of the highest hopes he’d had for adult hockey. He’d done so,somuch… but he couldn’t say the story was over. There was one last thing missing to make the experience complete.
