Page 7 of From the Beginning

Once in the penalty box, I glared at the rookie, who glared right back.

“I had it,” he muttered, wiping at the shield of his helmet before placing it on the bench beside him.

“Looked like it.” I kicked my skate out at the door, my glare settling across the way to our bench.

So much for having a good game. This one wasn’t looking too promising.

***

The game was nearly over.

With less than a minute left on the clock, I had to battle that odd feeling of hope. We could do this. We were tied, and we could win this well before that final buzzer.

We could get our first win in way too fucking long.

I tore my eyes off the play action, looking toward Coach for any new direction. His scowl was directed on the ice; play would resume as originally planned. With that, I looked back at the game, trailing my eyes toward Thompson, who I was set to replace upon the end of his shift.

The signs were quick; the moment of change had to be done on a dime. Noticing my cue, I stood, waiting for Thompson to make his way back in. I leaned against the boards, my hip sliding down, then ass up, so I had a skate on the other side, ready to go when the time came.

In one quick, fluid motion, Thompson skated in and I jumped out onto the ice, skating with purpose toward the net. I situated myself near the crease so if the puck came, I could easily give it a ride home. With my eyes shifting around the ice, I made note of our guys.

Kyle Connor, a tall, lanky kid from Kansas, had control over the puck, skating it back and forth as he watched for one of us to be open, or for a clear shot on net. “Con!” I yelled over the chirping and fans, but quickly, I was covered and no longer open.

I pushed off, trying to move away, only to watch as Connor was slammed back into the boards--but not before sending a beauty of a slapshot to Troy Walters, our team Captain. Walters didn’t hang on to the puck long though; after finding myself clear of defenders, I slapped the blade of my stick on the ice, hoping he caught my intention.

His eyes shifted toward me, for all but a second, and he lifted the puck, sending it to roll along the rafters of the boards, where it finally fell, and settled, at my feet. It couldn’t have happened any more perfectly.

Of course, Houston’s men watched it happen, so I had to act quickly. I slipped the puck between my opponent’s skates, careful to not be called for an infraction. We didn’t need that shit right now. With a quick weave, I skated around one of Houston’s forwards and, like an artist at his easel, tipped the puck into the net.

All but for the noise of the cheers and slapping of sticks from the Beloit bench, the arena was silent.

Then, in loud unison, the place echoed with groans and “boos,” the sound waving around the arena just as the buzzer for the game went off, simultaneously with the buzz of the goal.

We did it.

In a terrible streak of losses, we found our feet.

And it was about damn time.

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