Page 18 of Penalty Shot
“That’s the end of the first period. What’d you think?” Kendra asks.
“It’s so…” I try to find the best description. Fast? Scary? Hazardous? Nuts?
“Sexy!” Lily jumps in.
Kendra agrees and her husband shrugs. “As long as she watches the games by my side, I’m not complaining,” he says. They’ve been season ticket holders for years.
We’re chatting, so I don’t immediately realize there’s a man at the end of the row trying to get my attention. He’s waving his hands and pointing at me.
When we make eye contact, he holds up a jersey similar to what I’m wearing. The difference, however, is that the name at the back is HAUGHLAND. It’s Randall’s jersey.
The man, wearing a jacket with the team’s logo, asks the person at the end of the row to pass it to me. What in the world? Just as it lands on my lap, my phone pings.
Randall:Not gonna be able to do my job if you’ve got another man’s jersey on, Elise. Put this on before the next period. Say it.
I smile and blush and type.Yes, sir.
Removing my jersey on loan and folding it carefully, I ignore all the eyes watching me. When I replace it with Randall’s jersey, there’s a flutter in my stomach.
“Let me take a picture of you,” Lily says, taking my phone. “So you can send it to him.”
Presenting my back so she can get the name, I look over my shoulder and make a playful flying-kiss pose. Two minutes after sending it, three dots dance in a bubble.
They disappear. They return.
Finally, Randall:[thumbs up emoji]
A thumbs up emoji? What the hell is wrong with me?
The picture of Elise blowing me a kiss while wearing my jersey left me speechless.Way to impress a girl, Haughland.I’m officially an idiot.
“That was a great period,” Sergei, our biggest defenseman, says to me while I scowl at my phone. “Why do you look like you’re about to pummel someone?”
“I don’t,” I snap, like I’m about to pummel someone.
I had sent a locker room staffer to the section where Elise is sitting to deliver one of my jerseys. The only reason I let a goal in was because I saw the number on her upper arm when she turned slightly. It was a sucker punch, the wrongness of Lance freaking Jefferson’s name anywhere on Elise’s body.
“Heads up and pay attention,” Coach Zach yells. “Good work out there but we need to beat them to the puck, win those battles at the corners. Gordon, you’re taking Ron’s spot at the second line. Stay close to Mansour. Shut him down.”
Gordon nods. “You got it, Coach.”
“Randall, keep challenging the shots. Cut those angles. That last one was a tough rebound. Tighten up. The rest of you, keep up the forecheck! Now let’s go and kick some ass!”
We shuffle to refit our equipment. Everyone waits for me to go out first, which is tradition for the Mavericks locker room. The goalie of the game hits the ice first and the second goalie walks out of the locker room behind everyone. Tonight, Jeremy is taking my usual seat on the sidelines. I don’t mind being his backup one bit, though no one could keep me from the nettonight.
The first five minutes, I’m peppered with slapshots from the blue line. My guys do a decent job of keeping my sight line clear, which means pushing two-hundred-pound men out of my way. A puck you expect is one you can stop. Usually, anyway. Midway through the second period, the momentum shifts, and we convert a powerplay to tie the game.
The game is at a fever pitch, the tension thick in the air when Mansour slips out of Gordon’s check and speeds toward me. All his teammates surge behind him like a pack of hungry wolves. I square off, the noise dimming and my focus tunneling to the puck. Mansour gets to me in lightning speed and cranks up. I sense the moment he considers the pass. That split second of hesitation costs him, because now Gordon has caught up.
He passes to another teammate, and I slide to make the save, but the shot is deflected by my own defenseman’s stick, changing the trajectory. It lifts and is about to go over my shoulder, but I tilt my head, hoping to get a piece of it. I hear as much as feel the impact of a hard flying object hitting my reinforced helmet. The puck soars sideways. At the corner of my eye, I see Sergei fight off a brute to get possession. When he blasts the puck across the rink and out of our zone, I let myself hear the thunderous roar of the arena.
A goalie has a number of resources at his disposal: a long stick with a thick blade, a netted glove for snatching pucks out of thin air, padding to serve as armor. All of these are maximized when natural reflexes and acute awareness slow the game down. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s happening tonight.
Sometimes, I experience what I think of as a beach-ball night. It’s when the puck—small, fast, unpredictable—behaves like a large and lazy beach ball that can be swatted away with ease.
Each shot comes at me like it’s in slow motion. We win three to one.
After the team’s post-victory huddle, I practically run to the shower, eager to get out of the arena and meet up with Elise. I’m not a superstitious man, although I can’t deny the boost I felt seeing her cheering for me.
