Page 42 of Crease Collision

Revolution Arena, on the Hudson River waterfront, is already buzzing when we skate out for warmups. The lights are too bright, glaring off fresh ice and clean glass, and the music rattles my helmet while I stretch. Fans crowd behind the plexi, some already banging on it, trying to get a reaction from us.

I skate a slow lap around my crease, testing the ice. It’s too fresh, the kind that will punish you if you’re a fraction off.

The Fury is at the other end of the rink. They’re a young team with many players I don’t know. At the far end, Teddy Morrison is already in his net, the same big, composed guy as always. We’ve been on rival teams since college. No one could call us friends, but we’re close enough to trade a nod during games. I lift my glove, and he raises his stick in return.

After the starting lineup announcements and national anthem, the ref wastes no time dropping the puck. For the first twenty minutes, the game goes exactly the way it’s supposed to: both teams play hard and avoid penalties. Morrison is his usual irritatingly steady self. His methodical approach makes him a tough opponent, but it’s also his weakness. Get him moving laterally twice, and his recovery is delayed by half a second.

That doesn’t seem like much, but in pro hockey, half a second is an unlocked door. The Condors find it twice, first on a rebound my buddy Noah punches through a screen, and second on a nasty little give-and-go that leaves Morrison sliding the wrong way while Nico buries the puck over his blocker.

We’re up 2–0 going into the first intermission.

In the locker room, I towel off and catch my breath. With my teammates joking around, I slip into the hockey version of me—loud and happy. But the buzz underneath it is a warning. My brain is skating a hundred miles per hour on the rink in my mind.

Theo gets me to sit down. I stare at the chrome bolt on the empty stall opposite me, counting its ridges until the frantic skating in my head slows to a glide. When Nico rests his hands on my shoulders, I come back, steadier but still on edge. I have no idea how much time has passed, but at least I’m calmer.

The second period starts heavier than the first. The Fury come out pissed, taking no prisoners and finishing checks they’d only leaned into earlier. A winger dumps the puck deep and chases it; he hits Jace—one of our forwards—like he’d been promised a bonus for separating Jace from his spine.

The puck is still loose.

“Heads up!” I shout, tapping my stick.

The puck bounces wildly around the crease as players scramble for control, pushing and shoving but stopping short of an actual fight. More players rush in, and soon everyone collides with Morrison. The whistle blows a moment too late as he goes down and stays put.

The crowd noise shifts into a less angry hum. Players return to the benches as everyone watches the Fury’s net. I skate to our bench, hoping to relax a little. The Fury’s trainer comes onto the ice and hurries to their crease. When he arrives, Morrison tries to roll but can’t.

Shit. This isn’t good.

Eventually, the trainer and the Fury’s captain help Morrison up. He puts weight on one leg but immediately shifts off it. It’s easy to see the pain on his face. They escort him off the ice and disappear down the tunnel toward their locker room.

Nico looks at me and asks, “You good?”

“I’m winning two-nothing.”

“Isn’t it us winning by two?”

“Not without me.”

He shoots me a grin. “Cocky bastard.”

“Accurate.”

The announcer’s voice comes over the speakers. “Ted Morrison will not return to tonight’s game. Now in goal for New Jersey, number thirty, Oskar Olofsson.”

Oskar. The name makes me think of the Oskar I know. Except for a couple of “hope you’re good” texts while I was at training camp, we haven’t talked in weeks. I told myself that was for the best, and maybe it is. But hearing “Oskar” still hits harder than I expect.

Their Oskar skates out from the tunnel and heads for the Fury’s net. He’s tall, leaner than Morrison, and looks all-business in brand-new gear.

As I skate to my goal, I try to remember what I know about the Fury’s new backup. Young. From Europe. Supposedly hot stuff.

That’s about it.

Play resumes with Nico winning the draw, and we cycle low. I track the puck from my end, partly focused on the developing play, and partly aware of the new goalie facing me, 180 feet away.

The action is immediate. A shot from the circle, a kick save. The Fury’s goalie drops and smothers the rebound. Good save. A little frantic, but clean.

Both teams change lines, but there’s no faceoff. Instead, the officials gather near the boards because someone has objected to something. I distract myself by checking out the new goalie.

He’s facing away, drinking water. When he turns back around, his mask is still tilted upward. For some reason, he removes it entirely. His head is down, but I see long blond hair. It’s familiar enough to make something tighten in my chest.