Page 1 of Sin Bin Bully

1

SAM

Sam

No hockey game is exactly the same. Each time I come out here, there’s no relying on routine.

You have to be sharp. You have to expect the unexpected at all times. You have to be ready to knock some teeth out at any given moment, whether you’re a left winger like me, or any other position. But especially if you’re me.

I suppose that’s why I love it so much.

I glide along the ice, my eyes skimming the rink, debating my next move. We’re so close to winning, I can practically feel the ice vibrating beneath us.

I block out everything. The crowd, my shouting teammates. The opposing team. The sound of skates on ice. None of that exists to me right now.

“Come on,” I growl to myself.

We’re reaching the end of our first overtime. We’re tied right now, three to three.

It was our game. At fifty-seven minutes, we led three to two. And then their center snuck a shot past us, straight to the back of the net.

I see the play in front of me. A breakout pass. All our left defenseman has to do is pass the puck to me, and I can score the last point for us.

“Come on,” I repeat, more urgently.

Left defenseman Matthew sees it too. I ready myself, all focus trained on this one moment. He glances up at me and I nod. This is it, right here. These next three seconds are everything.

The pass is right in front of him. He has time. But Matthew hesitates.

He fuckinghesitates.

“Fuck!” I shout.

The puck is stolen. The pass was practically handed to us, and Matthew didn’t take it. I know he saw it. I know he did.

Pushing past my anger, I refocus, looking for the next opportunity. We have to score now, or we’ll go into another overtime, giving them more time to take the lead.

I won’t let that happen.

I accelerate, moving across the ice with expert precision. My stick feels like an extension of my arm as I reach out with it for the puck.

The opposing defenseman blocks my path, but I don’t give him more than two seconds of my time. My right shoulder sends him skittering as he tries to keep his balance.

“Arrogant piece of shit,” I mutter. If this weren’t such a crucial moment, I’d spend a little extra time on him.

I dash forward, and just inside the faceoff circle, I see my opening. The goalie spots me, but I’m too fast. I quickly drag the puck from the toe of the blade towards me, before sending a snapshot right to the top shelf of the net.

The sound that follows is deafening. Screaming- no, roaring, fills the stadium. My team is celebrating all around me, and I feel several of them shoving me in appreciation.

But unlike them, I’m not ready to celebrate just yet. My eyes are on Matthew, who has enough sense in him to stay away from me. He’s standing near the back of the team, avoiding my gaze.

My hands are shaking in my gloves. I know I should be happy. We’re inching closer and closer to the Stanley Cup, and at this rate, cinching our spot in the Finals in no time.

I slap some of my teammates on the back, momentarily joining in on their fun. I’d be lying if I said this feeling wasn’t usually incredible. But right now, I just can’t enjoy it.

Eventually, we make our way to the locker room, screaming fans on all sides of us. We smile and wave at them, but few of us are actually stopping. After a game, the last thing we want to do is stand around signing shit and taking pictures.

At least, not until we’ve showered.

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