Page 48 of The Cutting Edge
The first period ends with only a few pathetically unsuccessful attempts to score on the Flyers. We haven’t been able to get anywhere near their goal, because we’ve spent the entire game short on players and defending ours.
As we head to the locker room, the mood is somber.
“What in the hell is going on out there?” booms Coach Michaels. "Your captain hands you a hat trick on a silver platter to clinch our spot in the playoffs in this very arena less than a week ago — are we going to just piss that away?"
The locker room reverberates with sullen “No, coach" responses, and a few muted slaps on the back for me. We’re quiet and hyper-focused as Coach lays out the battle plan to recapture our dignity and win the game.
As the intermission before the second period comes to a close, we head out back toward the ice, beaten down but not broken, and ready to play our asses off and retake this game.
The refs, however, have other plans.
I get a nice piece of the puck during the drop, and Cam, Zayne, and I make our way to the Philly goal, passing back and forth as we easily push past their defensemen like we can read each other's minds. Cam shoots, and the puck rebounds off the goalpost. I snatch it back as I circle the goal, setting myself up for the shot, and coming back around to make the play.
We’re finally in a good rhythm, Cam, Zayne, and me — and I’m hoping we can keep it up and let it spread to the rest of the guys. All we need is one goal to change the momentum of this game, make something happen, and turn this series around. The home crowd is with us, willing us to score, and we can feel it down on the ice as the crowd stomps their feet in anticipation.
I slap the puck into the goal, just above the Philly goalie’s right shoulder on the top shelf where Grandma keeps the peanut butter. He's ready for me and bats it away, but the three of us have found our sweet spot — we keep hammering their goalie, shot after shot, and we’re not going home until we light the lamp. Zayne chases the rebound, then passes to Cam, which is when Zarra, one of the Philly defenders, slams into me hard and sends me sailing towards the boards and Ryan Cothling, aka the “Garbageman” because of his fondness for dirty plays. Garbageman gives me a smirk as I barrel towards him, and it's all I can do to regain my balance as I go hurtling toward the wall. I collide with Cothling, and he slides a few inches into the boards head-first in a dramatic and Oscar-worthy performance that would make Dame Judi Dench jealous.
As I go down, Garbageman punches me in the kidneys, and I pop him back hard in the chin to let him know I’m not in the mood to be fucked with.
“See ya, Pidge,” says Garbageman as our enforcer, Belkov the Bonecrusher (best fucking nickname in the NHL,) slides up and makes sure Garbageman knows he’s ready to step in. That kidney punch hurt like hell, but I’m not giving that fucker the satisfaction.
I scramble to my feet as the goal buzzer sounds and slap Zayne on the back. Our first goal of the game, and it feels like we might finally be able to turn this nightmare around. 3-1, only two more to go. We can do this.
The crowd is cheering and singing along as the goal song plays, and for just a brief second, I let myself wonder if Coco is watching tonight as I glide toward the bench.
Everybody’s standing, giving Zayne, Cam, and me slaps on the back and promises to keep the momentum shift going.
I sit down just as one of the refs blows his whistle and waves another rep over for a quick discussion on the ice.
Coach Michaels is suddenly on his feet pacing, and suddenly every coach on both sides is watching the replays like a hawk.
Finally, the first ref walks to center ice and makes the announcement:
“Rivers, number 17, Boarding.”
The ref punches his open palm with his other fist, as he says it, and suddenly it’s like I’m underwater and everything is moving in super slow motion. I almost can’t believe it’s real until he announces the penalty:
I’m ejected.
What the hell? I’m getting nailed for boarding? Don't get me wrong, smashing some player’s head into the boards is dangerous as hell and guys who pull that shit absolutely should be ejected. But that's not what happened. Physics happened, and I shouldn’t be held responsible for that.
Zarra collided with me, which sent me sliding off-balance towards Garbageman, who conveniently flopped into the boards as I headed in his direction. And then that piece of shit sucker-punched me.
It was Zarra’s shoulder check that set me in motion, and whatever, that’s all part of the game. But ejected for sliding into another guy who had set himself up for the sports equivalent of an eighth-grade drama performance? You’ve got to fucking be kidding me.
I'm just about to give the ref a piece of my mind (I mean, what the hell, I’m out of the game anyway – might as well go down swinging), but Cam grabs me by the shoulder, and Coach Michaels determinedly waves the ref over for a discussion.
Things go from bad to worse as Coach Michaels’ face turns beet red, and suddenly he’s yelling at the ref at full volume. He’s pointing aggressively at the replay on his iPad. Coach Rocco and another one of the assistant coaches rush over to where Michaels is standing in an effort to calm him down. No luck. Coach Michaels slams his iPad down like he’s spiking a football. The ref loses his temper and ejects our head coach from the game right along with me.
We’re screwed.
Chapter nineteen
Coco
“Wait,Idon’tunderstandwhat happened,” I say. “Why did Logan get kicked out of the game?”
“Boarding,” says Marissa reading from her phone, “which apparently means that Logan intentionally slammed the other guy into the wall, and because the Philly guy wasn’t anywhere near the puck he’s considered defenseless. Boarding is usually like, a surprise hit on a defenseless player – they don’t see it coming.”
