Page 25 of Blindside Sinner

“And there you have it, folks,” the announcer says. “Your Seattle Wave home team, ready to skate their way to victory. Let’s hear it one more time!”

I slip away from my seat to buy enough snacks to feed a family. By the time I’m back in position, the teams are on the ice to begin play.

The puck drops.

And the Wave surges.

If I thought watching Beck practice was impressive, watching him in a game is something else. With each brutal shove, each calculated pass of the puck, each block or body check, I can see what I haven’t let myself before.

Beckishockey.

He’s a shooter, a blocker, a passer—and, it turns out, a freaking machine. For such a big guy, he moves with a certain grace, with a tireless fluidity I sure as hell didn’t expect. It’s almost like he can see exactly what’s going to happen before it does. He’s a blur of motion and efficiency. Locked in like I’ve never seen before. A lightning bolt on skates.

But somehow, it feels like he’s holding back. Still settling into the game.

I get my true first taste of what he can do three minutes into the first period.

Zane Whitaker, the star of the Phoenix Angels, is skating with the puck. He fades left, but Colin is there. Shifts to the right and starts gaining speed as he takes the puck out of his own zone. He should pass, but he doesn’t. He bobs and weaves, a blur in red on the ice.

Dixon lines him up, holding his stick out to ward Whitaker away from the danger zone, but Zane is too fast.

Another whirr of motion. Whitaker’s stick raises. Lashes out.WHACK.You can hear it like an iceberg breaking. The crowd sucks in a huge, collective breath.

And then anotherWHACKas it catches the post of the goal and spits back into play.

Close call.

Beck is there to gather the loose puck immediately after that near-disaster. Whitaker makes a feeble attempt to slow Beck down, but he bounces off like a ragdoll.

More collisions. Colin is taken out by an Angel, both men falling to the ice in a tangle of limbs. Beck, meanwhile, is still going.

He crosses one blue line. Then the next. He should pass—Dixon is wide open across the ice, slapping his stick down and begging for the puck.

But every damn person in this stadium knows one thing for sure: Beck ain’t passing.

He dekes hard, drawing a Phoenix defender off-balance, then slaloms effortlessly around him.

Here it is. The moment of truth.

He coils up.

A moment’s pause, everyone on the verge of a gasp, rising out of their seats, fists already held high. The air is taut and cold. The whole world in suspense.

He strikes. A slapshot, a hard one. Good contact on the puck. It flies off his stick like he shot it out of a cannon.

Another Phoenix defender tries to lunge in its path, but he’s too late, too slow. The puck goes, and goes, and goes. The goalie’s eyes grow wide as dinner plates as it comes toward him. He stretches up high…

But he’s not any luckier.

Puck hits net.

Seattle scores.

The place goes absolutely ballistic.

I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I’m getting caught up insomething,that’s for sure. We’re hugging and high-fiving, me and all these strangers, losing our collective minds over a team—over aperson—that I swore I didn’t give a rat’s ass about.

It takes me a moment to realize something new is happening down on the ice. A scrum is breaking out. It starts with a shove here and push there, and then it’s a five-way brawl.

---