Page 55 of Puck Daddies
18
HUDSON
Warmups end,and the horn sounds. We huddle at the bench for the starting shift. Rocco takes the face-off dot at center. I line up at the left wing, skate blades on the paint. Oliver taps my shin pad with his stick at the right wing. Our D pair is Ellis and Carter.
Puck drops. Rocco wins it back on his backhand and turns his hips to shield. I swing across the red and take the touch pass. Their right D gaps up early. I chip to space off the wall, beat him to the dot, and rim it behind the net.
Oliver gets there first and bumps it back to Rocco. We start the cycle. Low to high to low. Ellis drifts down the wall, takes a return, wrists it on the net through a screen. Goalie kicks it to the corner. I seal the boards and tap it back to Rocco. He cuts middle. Shot. Pad save.
It’s quick and brutal. Everything I love about the game.
Second shift, neutral-zone regroup. Carter hits me in stride at the far blue. I drag to my backhand, lay it for Oliver through theseam, and drive the far post. He shoots, and the rebound pops out.
I get a stick on it, but their center ties me up. The puck dies under a pile. Whistle.
We take the O-zone draw left side. Rocco sets his feet, wins it clean to Ellis. One-timer, wide. We stay on them. Rocco stays between the dots and cheats to the strong side. It clicks early. We hold them to the outside. Our gaps are tight, and sticks are in the lanes. We’ve got this.
Midway through the first, we get a matchup we like. Their second pair is slow on pivots. I take the puck on a controlled entry and push wide left. Their D swivels. I cut to my forehand and feed a late trailer. Rocco one-times.
Crossbar, out.
The crowd groans. The bench pounds sticks. We keep going. We always keep going. That’s what makes us the hometown heroes. Not the wins. The determination.
Defensive zone, face-off right side. Rocco ties his man. I crash inside hash marks, and the puck squirts weak side. Oliver lifts a stick, chips the glass, and out. I win the race, angle the defenseman, and put it deep.
Later, we get our break. I pick off a lazy pass on the wall and feed Rocco in the slot. He snaps it low blocker. One–nothing. We skate through the line of arms, gloves to gloves, and return to the bench, breathing hard.
Between shifts, Coach says, “Keep reading that weak side—he’s late every time.”
The next period starts heavy. They switch to an aggressive mode, and our defense is hammered on retrievals. I skate low to help, present a short outlet, and eat a hit to get a clean chip. Travis jumps their bench for his line change and chirps at me as he crosses. I don’t look. I hold the rail.
Fuck that kid.
Six minutes in, their captain throws a reverse behind his net. I read it and arrive at the same time as their left D. I get body position and separate him from the puck. He turns, expecting a soft finish. I shoulder through him harder than I should and ride him into the wall after the puck is gone. It frees the puck. Oliver picks it up, walks the short side, and tucks it before their goalie resets. Two–nothing.
It’s ugly, but we’re not at a tea party. I’m done playing nice.
The boos start on the far side, then spread. It isn’t the whole building. It’s enough. Their bench leans over and points. The linesman skates by me and says, “Watch your finish.”
The ref’s arm stays down.
I know why. My feet were moving. My hands were low. It was late by less than a beat. But it still looked bad.
I skate to the bench and sit. My chest feels tight in a way that isn’t about lungs. Coach leans in. “They’re hunting a call.” I nod and force my face flat.
Rocco bumps my shoulder once with his glove. “Next one, make him play the puck.”
Next shift, they send their hitter after me. He’s a piece of work, like me. I peel off early twice rather than invite another gray hit. I’m not playing by their rules. Fuck all of this bullshit.
The crowd lets me hear it. I keep my head down and skate my routes. On a back-check, I pick up weak-side responsibility, switch with Ellis at the dot, and front a shot that stings but dies in my pads.
They score one late on a screen. Two–one. We lock it down in the third with a heavy, simple game. Pucks deep, bodies on bodies, no east-west. I take short shifts and change hard to keep my legs fresh. Final minute, I eat a puck on the thigh—damn near the same spot as before—and limp the last twenty seconds. We block two more and flip one out to the red. Horn.
Win. Barely.
We tap gloves in the line. Their D jaw at me as we pass.
What the fuck ever. I keep my mouth shut. I lift my stick to our end of the building, then drop it fast because the boo pocket is still there, and I don’t feel like feeding it. The room is loud.
