Page 32 of The Enemy Face Off

Milo

We're leading4-0, when Alexis Trbojevic, the Tampa Bay Thunders' ruthless forward, intercepts a pass and makes a break toward me.

He skillfully glides past one of our defenders, then another.

Ithriveon moments like this, when it's just me and a two-hundred pound goliath barreling toward me.

Adrenaline spikes in my veins, my eyes locked on him like a missile acquiring its target. I've kept the opposition scoreless all game, and I have no intention of letting anything get past me now.

I started playing hockey relatively late. I was in third grade. A PE teacher spotted my potential, and even though my home life was less than stable, I joined a junior team. That team became the only constant in my childhood.

On my darkest days, hockey pulled me through.

I could channel all my rage and fear and the gut-wrenching pain of being abandoned by an alcoholic mother and a drug-dealing father into a healthy outlet.

So I did.

And I still do.

Seven years in the major leagues later, I've got the highest save percentage of any goalkeeper in the past decade, and I'm in the top ten lowest goals against average goalies of all time.

That same rage, that fire, still burns inside me as Trbojevic approaches.

I grit my teeth, my heart racing, every cell in my body on high alert.

I live for this.

The only difference now is that it's not the only thing I live for anymore. I've got two small kids who depend on me to think about.

My eyes remain glued to Trbojevic as Josie and Jonah's sweet faces pop into my head.

I've finally got a purpose. A reason to do what I do that goes beyond making money, breaking records, and further inflating my already overinflated ego.

I want to give them the best start in life. The start I never had.

Trbojevic clutches the puck tightly to his stick.

The tension is palpable.

Whether he makes this shot or not won't affect the outcome of the game since there's less than a minute remaining.

Which makes this personal, a chance for him and his team to save face.

Not on my watch.

I square off against him, ready to defend the goal as if this were the Stanley Cup final, and not a Christmas week game.

He nears the crease, pulling his stick back in a smooth, practiced motion, and takes the shot.

The puck rockets across the ice.

My focus narrows to the small black disc gliding toward me. Years of discipline, dedication, and training merge with natural instinct as my glove meets the puck, the sharp snap of rubber against leather filling the air as I successfully block the shot.

With a sweep of my stick, I clear the puck from the danger zone.

We're in enemy territory tonight so the crowd boos loudly, but I don't care. I lift my stick in the air, goading them even more. The boos grow louder, and I can't help but smirk, enjoying every second.

After the up and down mess of last season, this year, the LA Swifts have come out swinging. It was a huge blow losing Culverso early, but those summer training sessions really paid off, and we're currently the top team in our division.

---