Page 32 of The Perfect Snipe

Coach paces back and forth, his face red. “What the hell was that out there? You're playing like a bunch of peewees! You’re all better than this. We know it, they know it. Let's go out there and prove it. One shift at a time, one play at a time.”

We all nod, but there’s doubt in my teammates’ eyes. It mirrors my own, and that realization twists in my gut like a knife. How can I inspire confidence in them when I can barely muster it for myself?

As we head back out for the second period, Hudson skates up beside me. “Let's turn this around, yeah.”

I give him a curt not, trying to project a confidence I don't feel.

The second period starts marginally better. We're generating more chances, the puck spending more time in their zone. But still, we can't seem to find the back of the net. And with each missed opportunity, the frustration builds, not just in me but in every player on the bench. I can see it in the set of their jaws, the way they slam their sticks against the boards after each shift. Even in some of the unnecessary penalties we’re making.

“Keep pushing,” I urge, meeting each pair of eyes. “We're getting closer. One of these is bound to go in.”

Mykyta nods, his usual cocky grin replaced by a look of grim determination. “Yeah, and when it does, the floodgates will open. We've just gotta keep at it.”

But as the period wears on, that elusive goal continues to evade us. And the crowd grows restless, their cheers becoming more sporadic and halfhearted.

As we enter the final period, desperation fuels our play. We're throwing everything we have at their net, but their goalie stands tall. With each save, our playoff hopes slip further away. Theweight of my promise to Wendy presses down on me, making each stride on the ice feel like I'm skating through quicksand.

With five minutes left, Coach calls a timeout. We gather around, panting and sweating. “All right, boys. It's now or never. Hartman, I want you out there with Clanton and Kovalenko. Let's see if we can't make some magic happen.”

I nod, steeling myself for what could be our last chance. As we take to the ice, I lean in to Wyatt and Mykyta. “We're ending this drought now.”

The puck drops, and we're off. Wyatt wins the faceoff, sending it back to Hudson. He fires it around the boards where Mykyta picks it up.

“Clanton, go to the net!” I bark out, seeing an opening developing.

As Wyatt crashes the crease, drawing the defensemen with him, I find some open ice. Mykyta spots me and sends a perfect pass right to my tape.

The goalie shifts, trying to read my intentions. In a split second decision, I fake a shot, then slide the puck over to Mykyta, who's managed to shake free of his coverage.

He doesn't hesitate, one-timing it into the back of the net. The goal horn blares and the crowd erupts, their cheers washing over us like a wave.

“Fuck yeah!” Mykyta screams, throwing himself into my arms. The rest of the team piles on, a tangle of limbs and sticks.

As we skate back to the bench, Wyatt grins at me. “See? Told you we'd get one. Now let's get another.”

The goal seems to have broken the dam. Suddenly, we're playing like the team I know we can be. Passes connect, shots find their target, and our defensive coverage tightens up.

With just under a minute left, we manage to tie the game. The arena is deafening as we head to overtime, the fans on their feet, willing us to complete the comeback.

In the huddle before overtime starts, I look each of my teammates in the eye. “This is our game. We've clawed our way back into this. Let's finish it.”

The next twenty minutes are a back-and-forth affair, both teams trading chances. My heart pounds in my chest with each rush up the ice, the fear of letting this opportunity slip away driving me forward. Every muscle burns, fatigue setting in, but I push through it.

With thirty seconds left, I intercept a pass in our zone and take off. Mykyta calls for the puck, but I see their defenseman inching toward him.

I fake the pass, then cut to the middle. Their other defensemen steps up to challenge me, but I manage to chip the puck past him.

This isn't just about this game. It's about our playoff hopes, about my promise to Wendy, about proving that I'm not washed up. About showing that I still have something left to give.

I deke once, twice, then lift the puck over the sprawling goaltender. Time stands still as I watch it sail toward the net.

The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net is the sweetest thing I've ever heard. The arena explodes, and my teammates pour off the bench, mobbing me in celebration.

We're still in the playoff race, but just barely.

In the locker room, amidst the celebration, I find a quiet corner to catch my breath. The pressure weighs on my chest, threatening to suffocate me. We won tonight, but what about the next game? And the one after that?

And what happens if we lose the next one? What do I have left when the final whistle blows on my career? My wife is gone. My children are growing up faster than I can keep up with. Without hockey, who am I?

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