Page 210 of Pucking Around

“Eyes sharp!” Mars calls at me. “Watch 27!”

As he says it, the puck is passed to Mäkinen and the Finnish winger blasts forward, trying to fake me out like he’s going for the center approach. He darts right instead, ready to skate along the wall. I’m right on top of him, closing off his shot window. He grunts, passing the puck back instead.

I stay on him, skating backwards as we both move in on Mars and the goal. His forwards are in a brawl with Sully and J-Lo, fighting for control of the puck.

“Clear it!” Mars bellows.

I hold my position at the top of the crease, ready to block any approach.

“He’s coming down the middle!”

I’m ready, giving their center a full-frontal smash and crash, working the puck away from him and sending it flying down the ice feet ahead of Karlsson. He races after it, feet slicing the ice.

“Good clear,” Mars calls behind me.

I nod, watching for J-Lo before we make our move. He gives the signal and we both fly towards the bench. Morrow and Novy are ready for the shift change, leaping over the boards to take our place.

“Hey, watch 27!” I call at Morrow. “Mars says he doesn’t score tonight.”

Morrow nods, racing off to fill my spot as Karlsson loses his fight with Marchand and the pucks goes blasting down the ice towards the Rays goal.

Less than two minutes in, and this already feels like a goddamn dog fight.

Sweat pours from my forehead,drenching my undershirt, stinging my eyes. Start of the second period and I feel like I’ve been on this ice for three fucking hours. Score is 2-1. We’re up by one. Mars is pissed, but at least Mäkinen didn’t score the Toronto goal.

The Bear has officially come out to play. He’s ruthless, calling shots and working us ragged as we pick up the slack from our tired forwards. But we’re still fifteen minutes to intermission.

Mars is playing offensively tonight, leaving the net more than I’ve seen him do in recent games. He surges forward, meeting Mäkinen at the crease. Mäkinen wasn’t expecting it. He fumbles his shot and Mars bats the puck away just in time, sending it over to Langley.

But Langley is too far ahead of it. He turns to chase after it but Marchand is there like a freight train, plowing through him. Langley goes spinning down to the ice and I swallow a scream of rage. I can’t breathe as I wait for him to scramble to his feet, dazed but unharmed. He’s racing after Marchand, trying to stop him before he shoots to pass.

I’ve got Mäkinen covered, leaving J-Lo to take point at the crease with Mars. I want him back. I don’t like him playing out like this, not with Marchand on the ice.

“Mars, get in the box,” I shout, my panic getting the better of me.

I shove Mäkinen harder than I need to, but it’s enough to have him reeling back. It buys me a few precious seconds to move in towards the goal.

“Mars, get back, I got it!”

He needs to get back in the goal. I want him safe in the net. I can’t fucking breathe with him out like this. But he’s determined to play out, ready to push back against these fierce forwards. It’s a good strategy. The man is a giant. He’s fucking terrifying. He’s keeping them on their toes, making them take their shots from farther back.

Just when I think Sully and J-Lo have the puck cleared, a few things happen at once. Sully takes a hard shove from behind. Then J-Lo gets tripped up and nearly loses his balance as his skate catches on the end of No. 34’s stick. It sends him slipping to the side of the goal, leaving the path to Mars open.

He’s out too far. I can see it from here.

“Mars, get back!” But my shouting can’t help him.

Making a bold choice, Mars leaps, throwing himself backwards and flat, dropping to the ice with his feet at one end of the goal, arms stretched out to the other, stick clattering down.

He takes a spray of snow right in the grill of his mask as the Toronto forward does a pirouette, his shot blocked by Mars’ full-body defense. The forward trips over J-Lo, sending them both down to the ice.

The shot was blocked, but now Mars has to recover for the rebound. He scrambles, his body curling in so he can get back up on his knees. He can’t protect the goal like that. Can’t see what’s coming from the left.

But I can.

“Mars!” I cry out. I’m tearing up the ice, Mäkinen forgotten in my wake. But it’s too late. I’m too slow.

Marchand goes skating in too fast, straight into the crease, puck on the end of his stick, and slams into Mars. The puck follows Mars over the red line as he goes backwards inside his own net. I hear his cry of pain, that deep voice piercing through me, rattling my very bones.

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