Page 60 of Cold Comeback
"Yeah." I looked at him directly instead of finding somewhere else to focus. "We good?"
His smile was answer enough.
The first period unfolded like hockey was supposed to feel—instinctual, connected, alive.
Our first shift together came six minutes in—nothing spectacular—a simple defensive zone faceoff that I won clean. I executed a quick outlet pass to Linc and a controlled breakout that didn't create scoring chances but didn't give any away either. Basic hockey executed properly.
"Good read," Thatcher said during the line change, bumping my shoulder with his glove.
Two shifts later, we found something better. Thatcher picked up a loose puck in the neutral zone and hit me with a pass that landed on my tape exactly where I expected it. I carried it three strides, drew their defenseman toward me, and slid it back to Thatcher as he drove toward their blue line.
The shot missed, but the sequence was flawless—pure hockey instinct, no overthinking.
From the bench, I heard Pluto's voice: "Now that's what I'm talking about!"
Norfolk opened the scoring midway through the period on a power play goal. In the past, I would have let that goal weigh on me as personal failure, allowing it to poison the rest of my game.
Changing my approach, I skated to the faceoff dot and called out assignments for the restart. Clear voice, clear head. We had forty-plus minutes to answer.
Linc tied it with three minutes left in the period, burying a rebound after Bricks made two spectacular saves to keep us close. As the horn sounded, I caught Thatcher's eye on the bench. He was grinning, sweat-slicked hair sticking out from under his helmet, looking like a guy who remembered why he loved this game.
I flashed an instinctual smile.
Everything clicked in the second period.
Eight minutes in, Norfolk took a 2-1 lead on a goal that deflected off Knox's skate—bad luck, not bad defense. During the timeout that followed, Coach gathered us at the bench.
"Same game," he said, calm and certain. "We're playing the right way."
I caught Thatcher's eye across the huddle. Something passed between us—not words, but understanding. We had this.
Three minutes later, that understanding bore fruit. I won a draw in our defensive zone and immediately spotted Thatcher breaking up the left wing. Instead of the safe pass to the boards that would have killed momentum, I trusted my read and hit him in stride with a tape-to-tape pass that threaded between two Norfolk players.
Thatcher carried it across their blue line, drawing attention and creating space. I followed the play, no hesitation this time.
He dropped the puck back to me at the perfect moment—not too early, not too late—and suddenly I had time and space atthe top of the circle. Thatcher finished his move, slipping behind their defense toward the far post—time for my pass.
Cross-ice, through traffic, it landed on his stick as he planted at the goal line. He one-timed it before their goalie could recover, the puck ringing off the crossbar and down behind the line so fast it took the crowd a full second to register what had happened.
The crowd groaned.
I was halfway across the ice before I realized I was moving. Thatcher skated toward me with his arms raised and his face lit up with a massive grin. He crashed into me at the boards, gloves and helmet clattering as the rest of our line piled on top of us.
"Beauty pass!" he shouted over the crowd noise.
"Beauty finish!" I shouted back.
The bench poured over the boards, guys who hadn't even been on the ice, celebrating like they'd scored it themselves. Knox skated over and grabbed both of us in a bear hug.
"Fuckin' nailed it!" he shouted, mussing my hair like I was a rookie with his first goal.
Pluto appeared at my other shoulder, screaming something incomprehensible about "documentation" and "historical significance." Even Bricks had left his crease to join the pile.
I spotted Coach behind the bench as we skated back to center ice for the restart. He wasn't smiling—Coach never smiled during games—but he gave me the slightest nod of approval.
It sparked a flame of pure joy. Not relief at avoiding disaster, or grim satisfaction at executing properly. It was the elation of playing hockey as it was meant to be played.
Connected. Believing.
