Page 31 of The Cutting Edge
An unexpected giddiness bubbles up inside me; maybe Marissa is right.
I zone in and out for the next few minutes, daydreaming about possibilities I would otherwise not dare to contemplate.
After much fanfare from the announcers, the game finally starts. Logan and the center from the Capitals face off at center ice. The ref drops the puck, and Logan is the first to get a piece of it, sending it sailing toward Washington’s goal in a single powerful shot.
Players from both sides go barreling after the puck, furiously circling the rink, roughhousing with each other, and angling for a shot. :42 seconds into the game, Logan finds the opportunity they’re all scrambling to find and sends the puck sailing into the Capitals’ goal with his whip-fast slapshot.
SCORE!!
I hear an eruption of whoops and cheers from the nurses’ station down the hall. Clearly, Logan has made a friend or two over the last 48 hours.
He circles the rink, grinning at the crowd, and nodding to his coaches, as he skates back to the bench. The fans are going nuts, already up on their feet and cheering his name.
RI-VERS, RI-VERS, RI-VERS…
Nurse Barb is back, “I’ve got celebration popsicles! They’re blue! Team colors!” She hands one each to both Marissa and me.
Marissa shrugs, says “Thanks”, and tears the paper off, biting into the popsicle.
She looks at me, “What? I didn’t have dinner. Are you going to eat yours?”
I nod, laugh, and thank Barb.
She scurries off, and I dig into my popsicle.
“Hits the spot, right?” says Marissa, already halfway through the popsicle.
“Weirdly, yeah.”
“You should text Logan and tell him congrats.”
“You’re out of control. I don’t want to bug him during the game.” I say. “What if I throw him off or get him in trouble or something? I’ll tell him later.” Another player subs in for Logan, resulting in a puck drop without a clear winner, and a series of speedy skirmishes that don’t result in a goal for either side.
“Why’d the coach pull out Logan so fast? He scored a goal.”
“I don’t think hockey players play for all that long at a time.” She checks her phone. “Yada yada, hockey is considered the fastest game in the world, and hockey players typically play in shifts of 45 seconds. There you go. The more you know, and all that.”
My phone dings.
Are you watching the game?
Logan.
I instantly look up to see if I can still see what Logan’s doing, but the TV cameras are back on the action happening on the ice. Shocker, I know. Although I feel pretty certain that a show with Logan and his teammates just hanging out on the bench would be a big draw for the ladies. And some gentlemen as well.
What game?I text back. What’s the point of having the personal cell phone number of a professional hockey player if you can’t give him a hard time?
He sends me an emoji with its tongue sticking out, and before I have a chance to respond, he’s out on the ice once again.
Logan, and several other teammates, swap in for other players. It’s weird, there’s not a bell or a whistle or anything, they all just seem to magically know when to change. The referee says something about a face-off, and players from both sides converge around the puck.
Logan gets the jump on the puck drop for the second time, and the center for the Capitals looks like he’s out for blood.
One of the other Slashers takes the pass, and heads for the Capitals' goal, but a defender knocks it away and the pack goes chasing after the puck as it sails alone down the rink in the general direction of the Slashers' goal.
The Slashers’ goalie easily scoops up the puck and sends it back to the pack, where a player called The Hitman passes it back and forth with Logan, weaving in and out of Capitals players until the two of them close in on the opposing team’s goal once more.
This time, The Hitman takes the shot. It bounces off one of the goalposts and Logan snags the rebound, powerfully shooting the puck into the upper left corner of the goal, just over the Capitals goalie’s shoulder. The goalie does not look happy, and a skirmish breaks out along the wall, to the right of the goal.
