Page 93 of Flagrant Foul
“Blackeyes.” His voice shakes the room, rolling through it like thunder. No one moves. No one blinks. Everyone waits. Everyone hopes. Sev doesn’t disappoint. “It’s going to be a good game.”
When Ben said those words, he spoke softly. Kindly. Reassuringly. It was a quiet sentiment that made us feel confident and centered. A calm conviction that madeus believe in ourselves. A promise that good things were waiting for us.
The way Sev says it is nothing like that. Lightning cracks and locker doors rattle. Sticks drum on benches and the floor. Helmets crash against helmets and men’s hands tighten around each other. Sev doesn’t speak softly or kindly. He doesn’t reassure us, or even make us think we can do it.
He doesn’t say it like a promise.
He says it like a warrior who’s remembered his purpose. A wolf howling a war cry.
He says it like it’s already happened.
Like it’s a threat we’ve already delivered on.
To say we’re hyped doesn’t begin to cover it. In all my years of playing hockey, I’ve never felt energy like it.
We storm the ice and attack.
It’s a beautiful game. A brutal, beautiful game. A dance. A give and take. An expression of agility. An unchoreographed display of skill. There’s music playing in the distance, and only the Blackeyes know the lyrics.
Decker and McGuire are an impressive duo. There’s no getting away from that. They’re exactly as the media describes them: Poetry on Ice. They move like a well-oiled machine, anticipating the other’s movementsand delivering passes to each other with blinding speed and accuracy. Any other day, they’d be unstoppable.
But not today.
Today is our day, and it’sgoingto be a good game.
We’re tied at one goal each at the start of the third period, and from my vantage in the goal crease, I watch the Blackeyes come alive. They stretch their muscles like something old but strong. Something that’s been asleep for a long while. Uncurling their limbs and testing their balance. They find it quickly. More than that, they find each other. They play like men who were born to play together. Made to play together. Men who fought side by side in lifetimes gone by.
The puck darts from player to player, hitting the board, bouncing off it, and lining up perfectly with the hook of the stick held by the Blackeye waiting for it. Kretzman and Zielinski are playing center and left wing, stepping in for Lewis and Bryce. They’ve found their feet in the line, and let’s just say, the Blackeyes offensive players are playingoffense. They’re attacking, attacking, attacking, wearing the Vipers’ defense down.
Lockie gets the puck, but there’s a D-man on him, so he flicks it back to Kretzman, who passes it long to Zielinski. Zielinski cradles it on the blade of his stick,skating like a shell shot from a cannon. He scoops it up at the last second and belts it into the net.
It’s a beautiful goal.
A beautiful game.
Our game.
Our way.
It’s a clash of titans. A hard game played by two sides that don’t know how to quit.
McGuire gets the puck with three minutes on the timer. He sees a gap and takes it. He skates like his life depends on it. Like he was born to move like this. A katabatic wind blasting down a steep slope.
It’s me and McGuire.
It’s me and the puck.
It’s me and the puck, and itisa good game.
McGuire approaches from the left, swooping in like a bat out of hell. The puck is glued to his stick. My senses are firing. My peripheral vision narrows to block out everything that isn’t Robbie McGuire, his stick, and the puck.
He transfers his weight to his right leg, head turning microscopically. His shooting shoulder drops. At the last second, I see it. A tiny, almost invisible flicker in his eye.
It’s a deke move.A fake. A feint.
I don’t fall for it.
I know what I saw.
