Page 90 of Puck Your Charity

We march out of the locker room and head down the concrete tunnel. The roar of the crowd echoes through the thick cinderblock walls. Over twenty thousand fans scream their lungsout. The noise vibrates in my chest, a tangible force pushing us forward.

I step out of the tunnel and onto the ice.

The cold air hits my face. The bright stadium lights blind me for a fraction of a second. The deafening roar of the home crowd washes over the rink. We play on our ice tonight. We hold the home advantage.

I skate a fast lap around our defensive zone. I dig the steel blades of my skates into the frozen surface.

The opposing team skates onto the ice. The Berllow Vipers. They play a fast, punishing game. They hate us, and we hate them.

The referee blows the whistle.

I skate to the center circle. I bend my knees and lower my center of gravity. I rest the blade of my stick on the ice. The opposing center glares at me through his plastic visor. I ignore him. I keep my eyes on the referee's hand.

The puck drops.

I snap my stick forward, winning the draw. I pass the black rubber disc backward to Malcolm.

The game explodes into immediate chaos.

The first period passes in a blur of high-speed collisions and missed shots. The Vipers play a tight, suffocating defensive trap. They clog the neutral zone and force us to dump the puck into the corners. We grind against the boards, fighting for every inch of available space.

I take a vicious cross-check to the ribs. I stumble, but I keep my skates under me. The pain registers as a dull throb. I shake it off and chase the play.

Playing together for years changes the geometry of the game. I never need to look over my shoulder to know where Lawrence is. I anticipate his speed approaching the left wing. I fire a blind,backhand pass across the blue line. Lawrence catches the puck in stride and rips a fast wrist shot.

The Vipers goalie flashes his glove and makes the save.

The whistle blows.

We skate back to the bench. We breathe hard, sweat stinging our eyes.

"They block the shooting lanes." Lawrence squirts water into his mouth from a plastic bottle. "We need to force them out of position."

"I'll draw the defense." I wipe my face with a towel. "You crash the net for the rebound."

The second period turns into a grinding war of attrition. The score remains tied at zero. Neither team wants to make the first mistake. The tension in the arena builds with every blocked shot and every bone-crushing hit against the plexiglass.

Finn stands on his head in the crease. He blocks twenty shots in the second period alone. He moves with impossible agility, flashing his pads and sprawling across the ice to rob the Vipers of sure goals. He acts as an unyielding brick wall.

The Vipers take a hooking penalty midway through the period. The referee raises his arm. We get a two-minute power play.

Coach taps my shoulder. "Sterling, Davis, Walker. Get out there. Run the umbrella."

I jump over the boards. My skates hit the ice with a loud crunch. I skate to the face-off circle. The Vipers send out their best penalty killers. They plan to block shots and ice the puck to kill the clock.

I win the draw again. I pull the puck back to Malcolm at the point.

Malcolm walks the blue line. He uses his towering frame to shield the puck from a rushing forward. He fakes a slapshot and slides a smooth pass over to Lawrence on the half-wall.

The synergy kicks in. We run the power play like a flawless machine. We pass the puck with blinding speed, forcing the Vipers defense to scramble out of position. Years of practice pay off. I know Malcolm wants to shoot. I skate right to the front of the net, planting my large frame in the goalie's line of sight. I take a few slashes to the ankles from the defenders, but I refuse to move. I provide the screen.

Malcolm winds up. The crack of his composite stick echoes through the arena. He rips a vicious slapshot.

The puck sails through traffic and rings off the iron goalpost with a loud ping. The puck deflects into the corner.

A collective groan ripples through the home crowd.

I chase the loose puck into the corner. An opposing defenseman hits me from behind, driving my face into the plexiglass. The impact rattles my teeth. I drop my shoulder and shove him off, maintaining possession of the puck. I kick the rubber to my stick and feed a pass back to Lawrence.