Page 122 of On Ice

1-0 Buffalo.

The home crowd erupts, the goal horn blaring painfully in my ears. Mills slams his stick against the boards in frustration as he returns to the bench.

“Shake it off,” I tell him. “Plenty of time.” But even though I say the words of encouragement, gloom and negativity attack me. They drew first blood. Fuck.

Are we cursed?

As the period ends, the scoreboard tells a familiar story on the road: down a goal, being outshot 14-8, chasing the game again.

“They’re collapsing around their net,” Coach says during intermission, diagramming on the whiteboard. “We need to use the points more, get them moving side to side.”

Noah stands in the corner, still in full gear except for his mask, methodically spraying water on his face and neck. His eyes catch mine briefly. I can feel his dismay all the way across the room.

The second period begins with renewed intensity. Rodriguez nearly ties it thirty seconds in, his wrist shot clanging off the crossbar loud enough to hear over the crowd noise. Thepuck rebounds to their defenseman, who blindly clears it up the boards.

That’s when the game changes.

Calhoun, Buffalo’s enforcer, catches Torres with his head down as he pinches to keep the puck in. The hit is late and high, Torres’ helmet flying off as he crumples to the ice. The impact echoes through the arena, followed by an eerie momentary silence before Buffalo fans begin to cheer.

My blood boils as I watch Torres struggle to his hands and knees, clearly dazed. No penalty call.

Deck doesn’t hesitate. He drops his gloves and charges at Calhoun, grabbing him by the jersey. “That’s my teammate, you piece of shit.”

The fight is brief but violent, both players landing heavy punches before tumbling to the ice. The linesmen separate them, issuing matching fighting majors. Torres is helped to the locker room for concussion protocol, leaving us down a top defenseman.

“Four-on-four,” Coach shouts as we regroup. “Riley, Rodriguez, Mills, Reeves,go.”

The open ice of four-on-four hockey suits our speed. Rodriguez dangles through two Buffalo defenders, drawing coverage before sliding the puck to Mills, who’s activated from the point. Mills fires a rocket that Vitek somehow stops, but the rebound sits tantalizingly in the crease.

I battle through a crosscheck, diving headfirst toward the loose puck. My stick connects, shoveling it past Vitek’s outstretched pad. The red light flashes.

1-1.

I pick myself up off the ice, jersey soaked with snow and sweat, lungs burning from the effort. Rodriguez helps me to my feet, slapping my helmet. “Fucking beautiful, Captain.”

The Buffalo crowd goes quiet, the momentum shifting perceptibly. Back at even strength, we start to impose our game, using our speed advantage against their size. Noah stands tall, turning away a point-blank chance with a spectacular pad stack that has even some Buffalo fans shaking their heads in appreciation.

With four minutes left in the second, we strike again. I win an offensive zone faceoff back to Reeves, who keeps the puck in at the line and floats a low shot through traffic, textbook safe play with a high payoff. Jackson, parked in front of Vitek, gets a piece of it, redirecting it just enough to change the angle.

2-1 Ice Hawks.

“One more period just like that,” Coach says as we file into the locker room after forty minutes. But we all know what’s coming. Buffalo will adjust, push back harder. They’re unbeaten in their last five home games for a reason.

Torres returns for the third period, sporting a nasty bruise on his cheekbone but cleared to play. His presence solidifies our defense, allowing Mills to join the rush more confidently.

Buffalo comes out with renewed physicality. Wilson nearly ties it with a one-timer that Noah somehow gets his blocker on, the puck deflecting high into the netting. The subsequent faceoff leads to a scramble in front, bodies piling up as we desperately try to clear the crease.

“Get it out,” Noah shouts, his usual calm replaced by urgency.

Miller manages to chip it to the corner, where I battle along the boards, feeling the crushing weight of Buffalo’s defenseman Baranov against my back. My ribs scream in protest, but I manage to push the puck ahead to Jackson, giving us a brief reprieve.

Midway through the period, disaster. Rodriguez takes a tripping penalty, sending Buffalo to the power play. Their unit is dangerous, converting at over 25% at home.

“Keep them to the outside,” Coach instructs as our penalty kill unit prepares. “Pressure the points, active sticks in lanes.”

The two minutes that follow are pure chaos. Buffalo moves the puck with precision, searching for seams. Noah makes three consecutive saves, each more desperate than the last. Torres blocks a slap shot with his shin, crumpling momentarily before dragging himself into position to disrupt another pass.

When Rodriguez finally emerges from the box, the bench erupts in stick taps against the boards. But our celebration is premature.

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