Page 69 of Over the Line

LIAM

Kansas City was on a winning streak that they clearly didn’t intend to break, and we were on a losing streak that we were determined to end tonight. That always made for an interesting game.

If we did snap both those streaks, though, it probably wouldn’t be because of anything I did.

I could not focus, damn it. Five minutes into the first, I’d blown a tire once and fanned on two shots that would’ve been easy goals.

As I came back to the bench from my second shift, a frosty look from Coach warned me that my next shift had better not be quite such a shitshow. I told him with a nod that it wouldn’t be. I hoped I wasn’t lying.

When that next shift came, I was probably headed for disaster, but then one of Kansas City’s D-men found a way to pull my focus.

Namely, he high-sticked me in the face.

It wasn’t bad, all things considered. Hurt like a motherfucker and made my eyes water, but it didn’t draw blood or break anything. And it got us our first power play of the night.

And it really pissed me off.

Anger was as good a motivator as anything, and that was what ultimately drove my 98.7 mile-per-hour slapshot into the back of Kansas City’s net.

Well, hell. Maybe I’d be an asset to the team tonight after all.

“Good thing he whacked you,” Coach said when I returned to the bench. He clapped my shoulder through my pads. “Otherwise it would’ve been me.”

I laughed. He was kidding… mostly. And the anger that had turned into scoring turned into more momentum. My shifts after that were cleaner, my focus dialed in exactly where it needed to be. Nothing else existed except beating two points out of Kansas City, breaking their point streak, and snapping our losing streak.

Our fourth line got the action into our offensive zone. Coach sent the second line out next, letting our behemoths mow over the opposing players with drive after drive on their net. Kansas City couldn’t even peel away for line changes; even after one guy’s stick broke, he was stuck out there because nobody dared leave while Craws, Andersson, and Haavisto were bulldozing their defenses.

Kansas City finally managed to get the puck and clear it from their zone… but they iced it, so no line change for them. Pittsburgh, on the other hand—Coach called the second line back and sent me out with Temo and Chris. We set up for a faceoff with the absolutely gassed Kansas City players, and I won handily. One of their guys got the puck away from Chris, though, and the ensuing board battle gave some of the other guys a chance for a partial line change.

That was enough to shift momentum. One of the fresh players got possession, and he whipped it toward another in a beautiful stretch pass. Suddenly all the action was heading toward our defensive zone.

We raced after them. Up ahead, Barns shifted left, then right, then left again, glove and paddle up as he tried to anticipate.

The attacker shot. Barns slammed his glove down. He kept the puck out of the net, but he must not have frozen it right away. That, or the shooter thought he saw a loose puck. Either way, he was scrambling for the puck, digging around Barns to try to free it while he did his level best to keep it covered. His teammates joined him while my guys and I tried to get them all away from Barns.

Finally, a damn whistle.

And that was when all hell broke loose.

One of Kansas City’s guys took another whack at Barns, catching him in the arm, and in an instant, someone’s gloves came off. Sticks, gloves, and helmets fell to the ice as fists started flying. The crowd roared. Whistles screeched. Players from both teams tried to pull the fighters apart. I was in the scrum, grabbing handfuls of white-and-blue jerseys to get Kansas City’s players out of the fray. Craws, towering over me and most of the other guys, managed to pry someone loose and send him gliding back, and then the two of them were getting into it.

In the fight that started it all, the Kansas City fighter’s back hit the glass. Black-and-gold flashed as a fist whipped across his face. Fans were banging on the glass. Whistles were screaming.

Finally, someone got the upper hand, and they both went down.

The refs managed to get them apart, and another had separated Craws and the other guy. The crowd was still bloodthirsty for more, but the refs had things under control. Standing in a yard sale of discarded equipment, they shouted for Craws and his opponent to take their asses to the penalty boxes.

The first two fighters were still fired up, screaming at each other as teammates and refs held them apart.

“You don’t slash the fucking goalie!” Chris shouted over Temo’s shoulder as blood trickled from his nose. “You just fucking don’t!”

“Easy, Kanes,” Temo was saying. “C’mon, man. Let it go.” He may have been a few inches shorter than Chris, but he was strong as an ox, and he kept Chris gliding back toward the box. “Don’t get yourself another penalty.”

That seemed to break through Chris’s fury. He was still pissed, but he stopped resisting. Shaking his head, he turned around and started skating toward the box on his own. Temo stayed with him, probably still talking him down.

The other player was on his way to his own box, too, and some of the remaining guys on both sides were collecting the sticks, gloves, and helmets off the ice.

While they did that, Kansas City’s alternate captain and I joined the officials near the boxes to discuss penalties. Sometimes after a big scrum, it took a little time to sort out who was doing time for what. After something like this, the verdict was pretty straightforward.