Page 97 of Hot Puck
The guy is a master, and I heard a rumor he signed with New York for next season. But right now, he’s playing for Vegas and like the rest of us, he doesn’t care what team’s jersey he wears as long as he wears one and gets to play. And in this second, his sole focus is keeping his Cup dreams alive this year.
He’s closer now, a bunch of Rogues and Vegas players closing in as well. The puck comes at me, and I deflect, only for it to come back again. And again.
It’s almost too fast for the eye to follow and I know I’m barely keeping ahead of the play because I’m good at guarding my goal.
There’s a tussle for the puck, two Rogues and a couple of Vegas wingers. Bodies are contorting and one is going down…
And before I see it, the puck is behind me, the light on the top of my goal going off and the crowd going wild.
My gaze zips to the Jumbotron above center ice and I watch the replays while Vegas celebrates evening up the game. I study every second of those clips and once they finish showing them, I know there was no way I could have stopped that one.
It was a brilliant goal. I might be disappointed I let it slip past, but I’m not mad at myself. Even if I was perfect, I didn’t stand a chance against that one.
Both teams are over by their benches, the game stalled to allow for a commercial break, and I look down the ice to see my counterpart has his water bottle in hand and is skating toward his teammates.
My gaze goes to our bench—to Coach. He’s shaking his head. And I don’t understand until things get moving again.
Vegas pulled their goalie.
I search out the clock, see we’re less than a minute out from the end of the game and I know why the goal I’m staring at is unguarded.
Vegas doesn’t want to win in overtime. They want to score now. Put them one up tonight and even the series. Force us into another showdown.
The play is crazy, Vegas is pushing up, all players with only one purpose, to sink the puck they have control of into my net.
It. Isn’t. Happening.
I don’t need to see the looks on any of the Rogues’ faces. I know they’re all set with determination. Single-minded resolve. Keep the game even and go into overtime, or if the chance arises, get the puck down to that open net.
Every man on the ice is converging on me and I’m sweating more than I have all game. But I’m not going to be the man that forces us into another game this series.
The players are bunching up, to the side against the boards, then right in front of me, and I hold my breath and concentrate on the little black disc no one seems to be able to get control of. It’s like watching a group of five-year-olds trying to work out how to use their sticks.
Bodies move as one until they separate just enough to leave a gap barely big enough to see the other end of the ice. Then it gets bigger. A split second later that black disc appears.
And I don’t think. Just react.
Pulling back, I slap that thing out the far side of the gap.
I should get back in position. Guard my house. But I’m standing straight. My gaze aimed down the ice, following a puck that is making a beeline for the other end of the rink.
And that open goal.
I don’t think I hit it that hard. But it’s traveling so fast the players in front of me haven’t even worked out it’s gone.
Half a second later the goal lamp lights up and I’ve done something few goalies do.
I’ve scored a goal.
In the dying seconds of game six in the last series of the playoffs, I scored a goal.
Giving the Rogues a ticket to play for the Cup.
“Holy fudge sticks!”
Bex is on me. Yelling, “We’re playing for the Cup!” in my ear. The weight of him sends me off balance and we topple to the ice.
Then everyone in on us. Bran, Mikel, Tasman, and Gannon. More weight piles on and I think the whole team is on top of me.
