Page 31 of Blindside Me
The puck comes to me. I try a breakout pass, but it’s too fancy and forced. It’s intercepted. Elmwood transitions and presses toward our goal.
I recover, racing back into a defensive position. Their forward fires a shot. I drop to one knee, extending my stick.
The puck deflects off my blade, high into the netting.
The whistle blows.
Coach calls me to the bench. "Simple plays, Klaas. Stick to the system.”
I nod, gulping air.
Back on the ice.
Five minutes left.
The puck battles intensify. Bodies slam against boards. Sticks clash. I’m in the thick of it, fighting for every inch of ice.
Three minutes left.
Blake wins a faceoff and slides the puck to me. I spot an opening, a lane to our wing, Ryan. I hesitate for a split second. What if I’m wrong? What if this is another turnover?
I make the pass anyway.
It connects perfectly. Ryan breaks away, dekes the goalie, and scores.
1-0 Cessna.
The crowd erupts. My teammates mob our scorer. I hang back, relief washing over me.
Elmwood pulls their goalie with a minute left. Six attackers against our five. They press hard. A shot comes from the point. I block it with my body and feel the puck smash into my ribs. Pain explodes through my side, but I clear the zone.
The final buzzer sounds. We win.
My teammates throw their gloves up and pile together at center ice. I join the celebration peripherally, going through the motions. We form the handshake line, but I move through it in a daze.
The scout is gone from his seat. I scan the arena but can’t find him. What did he see? What did he write? Am I Jake 2.0 or something else entirely?
The locker room vibrates with victory. Music blasts, while the guys whoop and holler.
“We just took down the best team in our division,” Country yells.
“Hell, yeah!” Ryan tosses his gear down and turns to me. “Celebration at Barton’s. You in?”
I run my hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “Not tonight.”
“What?! Why?” His hands actually land on his hips as if scolding me.
“I need to stay focused.”
“You won’t get into a fight. Not tonight.” Blake tries to reassure me, but I answer with a shrug.
“You haven’t been out since your suspension,” Ryan says, pointedly.
“Is it fear of getting into trouble or afraid of hickey head?” This comes from someone in the background.
A collective groan ripples through the locker room, and I take the opportunity to slip to the showers. The quicker I get dressed, the faster I can escape. I won’t subject myself to that scrutiny again.
I’m about to step on the cold tile when Easton stops me.
