This is the first time since being traded to the Mavericks that I’m taking a spot with the top line. I don’t question it, bolting toward the ice before he changes his mind.
Fighting for space in front of the opponent’s net is a hell of a job. You get slashed, shoved, tripped, and sometimes speared if the referees are looking the other way. It’s also possible you’ll end up stopping your teammate’s slapshot with your nose. That’s a risk I’m willing to take as I plant myself like an oak tree in front of the goalie.
Sergei winds up at the blue line. He unleashes a rocket. I stay in the puck’s trajectory in order to screen the goaltender’s view. In the split second it takes for the puck to fly past five other bodies, I tilt my body, hoping for it to slip by and straight into the net.
It hits my hip pad instead, falling beside my skate blade.
I’m careful not to kick it in—which would negate the goal—and instead spin with my stick on the ice. The contact is swift, shoving the puck between the netminder’s legs. My five-hole stinger gets us on the scoreboard.
The boys on the bench go wild. Someone pounds on the glass behind me. I can’t stop smiling. Not because it was pretty, but because it mattered.
It isn’t my first goal since the trade from Denver, but this one gets us up one to zero while we’re chasing the top of our division. Hockey in February isn’t just about making the playoffs for a teamlike the Mavericks. Expectations are high, which means we’re gearing for home ice advantage.
It’s a tight game all the way to the final minutes. When Washington pulls their goaltender for an odd-man rush, Coach Zach taps me to play with the top line again.
“Still gloating about your garbage goal, Thorne?” That’s Radek Novak. We both played for Michigan State. We’ll probably grab a beer after this game if he isn’t too sore a loser.
There’s a saying that hockey players don’t love to win so much as they absolutely hate to lose. This guy is the meme for it.
“Me, gloat? Never. You should get your eyes checked, Novie,” I respond with a grin. “Oh wait, that won’t help since you’re only ever looking at my ass.”
“Asshole,” he mutters.
“Exactly.” I get the final word just as the puck drops in the circle.
We win the draw.
I dart behind the net, pick off a lazy reverse pass, and bolt out front of the line. I take a stick to the chin in order to snap the puck to Gordon, but my legs push past the hit. I follow the play.
Gordon’s drop pass is golden, landing right on my stick for a one-timer top shelf. The goalie isn’t even fast enough to flinch. His water bottle goes flying and the red lamp lights up.
My second of the night.
After the final buzzer, the locker room is a madhouse. A trainer is still taping up the gash on my chin when Coach Zach calls me into his office. He’s half sitting on the desk, arms crossed, and as stern as ever.
“We brought you in for speed,” he says. “But I saw something there today. Something a lot like your first few years in the league.”
“Thanks.”
“Your knee holding up?”
“Better than ever.”
He nods. “Keep playing like that, and you’ll earn a permanent spot on the power play. We need someone willing to pay the price in front of the net. Is that you, Thorne?”
“It is, Coach.”
“Good. Now get yourself patched up. You’re getting blood all over my carpet.”
We both chuckle, because everyone knows he doesn’t give a shit about the carpet. Coaches love to see their players bleed for the game. Not because they want to witness pain, but rather to gauge how much a player is willing to sacrifice.
The more blood, the more ice time. Hockey players are weird that way.
When I’m finally dressed, I check my phone and smile when I see a notification of Ligaya’s text. We’re meeting for the second ultrasound tomorrow, and I’m worried I didn’t put the time correctly in my calendar.
Ligaya:Yes, it’s at four. Same place. No holiday traffic to blame if you’re late.
She’s probably already asleep since it’s late, but I take a chance and text back:Would I have double checked the time if I planned to be late?
