Page 94 of Pucking Strong

Then, because I’m completely crazy, and because cameras are on me—and fuck all the haters, this is my special moment—I give into my sisters’ demands and blow Henrik a kiss as he skates away.

The puck drops for the third time in the first period, and Lindberg claims it, passing it across to Langley. I try to get myself in position, but there’s a lot of traffic as we move down the ice. The Islanders are fresh off their summer too, and just as hungry for their first win of the season.

Each time I get the puck, I send it back to Jake or Novy. I just can’t catch my breath with the way these guys keep swarming me, and I can’t seem to move the puck forward.

Coach calls for a line change, and I race to the bench, hopping the side as Westie takes my place out on the line. As soon as I drop down to the bench, Assistant Coach Denison steps in behind me. He places a hand on mine and Lindberg’s shoulder pads. “We gotta be moving the puck faster out there, boys. Read each play and find those openings. Karlsson, you’re playing it too safe. That new guy Ramsay is all over you. But he’s a lightweight, first year in the League. Probably still thinks Santa brings him his hockey sticks for Christmas.”

Around me, the other guys laugh.

Denison slaps my shoulder pad. “Let’s rush these forward lines and get some real two-on-one action going, eh? Let’s make some real plays out there! Come on, let’s go!”

We all grunt our assent as our brief, fifty-second respite ends. The line changes, and Langley, Lindberg, and I take to the ice again. I shoot across the rink, instantly picking up my new shadow. Coachis right—my usual gameplay isn’t working with this guy. He’s all over me, reading me like a book. Time to get creative. Rather than stay in my lane and wait for Lindberg or Langley to get a clean shot to pass, I rush the goal, cutting in towards the center line. Both Islander defensemen scramble, bracing for Lindberg to pass the puck to me.

But Lindberg uses my sudden surge to slip the puck behind Ramsay and out of the middle. Langley just barely snags the puck with the tip of his blade. In one stride, he’s recovered it. In two, he takes his first shot on goal. It shoots like a bullet across the ice, cutting right past the goalie’s toe and into the back of the net. The siren lights up, the horn blasts, and the arena erupts with cheers.

A textbook line rush. I didn’t get the goal. I didn’t even get the assist. But the play would have been impossible without me. And now the score is 1-0. Lindberg and I skate in to Langley, congratulating him for getting the first goal of the season. “Well done,” I tell him, slapping his back and tapping our helmets together.

Jake skates in behind me, wrapping an arm around Langley. “Seriously, Langers? The Baha Men?”

I glance around, only just noticing the commotion. Half the fans are barking like dogs and dancing to the song “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

Langley groans. “Oh, fuck me. The WAGs picked our goal music for tonight, remember?”

I glance between them. “What do you mean?”

Jake laughs, patting me on the back. “Score a goal, and you’ll find out.”

From my spot on the ice, I can see Teddy standing right on the plexiglass, surrounded by his family. They’re all laughing and smiling, leaning in to touch him, saying things in his ear that make him laugh. And they’re all wearing my jersey, even the littlest children. By showing up and supporting me, I know they’re actually supporting him.

Good. He deserves good people in his corner, ready to fight for him and give him everything he wants. Is this what he wants from me? He wants me to score a goal so he can embarrass me with whatever song he picked?

Done.

Lord knows he’s done enough for me already. Whatever my husband wants, he gets.

The ref holds up the puck, and we all get into position. Just before he drops it down, Ramsay gives me a nudge. “Say, you must be nearing retirement age there. Eh, bud?”

With a growl, I check him with my hip and race off after the action. Lindberg didn’t claim possession, and the Islanders sink the puck deep into their zone. A defenseman glides around the back of the net with the puck, waiting for his front line to try a play.

When you’ve played hockey as long as I have, there are moments of clarity on the ice when you justknowwhat’s going to happen next. I feel the moment the energy shifts in Ramsay. He’s going to break away from me and shoot down the ice, looking for a deep pass.

I give him the half second he needs to think he’s breaking away before I follow. He’s fast, but I’m faster, with a longer wingspan. The Islander defenseman sees the breakaway and makes the pass. The puck zips down the ice towards us. I extend out my stick and hook the puck away from Ramsay. I hardly register the hum of the crowd as I slide to a stop, spraying ice, and change directions. The other Islander forwards were ready to follow Ramsay. They scramble, chasing after me, but I have the two-second lead I need.

Their left-side defender is a giant of a man. I’ve played against him plenty of times before. His hits rattle my damn bones. But he’s slow. I dart his way. His partner falls back to guard the net. This is a three-on-one between the Islander defensive line and me. I have no chance.

Time to dangle.

It all happens in seconds. I weave and dart, making quick movements with my stick and quicker work of my feet. I slip the puck right between the giant’s legs, recovering it on the other side. I cross the slot, luring the other defenseman to follow. He charges at me, ready to block. With him between me and the goalie, I have no choice but to extend the puck out with my stick, trying to clear him for the shot.

At the last moment, I tuck in tight, lift the puck, and flip it right into the corner of the net. As the siren blasts and the cherry lightsup, I let the defenseman’s momentum take us both into the boards. He crushes me to the plexiglass and we both grunt. With a muttered curse, he skates off, just as Lindberg and Langley skate in.

“Dude, that was fucking awesome!” Langley slaps my back.

“Very impressive,” Lindberg says in Swedish.

They both skate with me towards the bench. The music is blasting as the stadium keeps cheering. I’ve been in enough clubs in my career to know the song Teddy picked for me. It’s “Money Maker” by Ludacris. I can’t help but smile. A song about paying women to shake their butts for money? It’s utterly ridiculous.

But I must admit, the crowd seems to enjoy it. The jumbotron shows a replay of my goal, and the cheering intensifies. The Rays bench is celebrating too, laughing at the song choice. They hold out their gloved hands for me to tap as I skate past.

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