Page 89 of Crease Collision

The puck is back in our zone. The players are a goddamn hornet’s nest of teal and blue, making the game almost impossible to track. I see only shapes and patterns as the men swarm around each other, their strategies constantly changing. I’m operating on pure instinct.

Every pass connects, and every fake is dangerous enough to make us bite. My thighs are burning from the last butterfly slide. Sweat soaks the padding of my mask, sticking to my skin and making each breath a cloud in the cold air.

Down the ice, Oskar is impossible to miss in his blue and white uniform. Whenever I catch a glimpse of him, he’s like he was at our first game in October. Technically perfect, watching quietly, moving only when he has to. He’s the reason this game is tied.

A Fury player shoots, and I don’t move because it’s going wide.

Thwank! It rings off the post to my left, and I feel the vibration through the ice under my skates. McKay, one of our defensemen, clears the rebound and sends it up the boards.

Big mistake. A Fury winger is on it in a heartbeat, charging back into our zone. I’m out of my crease in an instant, challenging him and cutting down the angle. He fakes left. When our guys bite, he slams a shot toward me.

Thwack! My glove hand snatches the puck out of midair an instant before it crosses the goal line. As the crowd erupts, the players in front of me move barely enough for me to see Oskar. Slowly, he raises his glove and taps the side of his mask, a message between netminders.

Nice save. Now let’s see you do it again.

It’s not taunting; it’s recognition. What goalies do when we know each other.

I steal a glance at the jumbotron. Twelve minutes left in the game, plenty of time for magic. And also for tragedy.

The Condors and the Fury: two immovable objects. I hope we can win this one. It’s not even halfway through the season, and though we’re holding on to first place in the division, the Fury are gaining on us.

Another faceoff. I brush the snow from my pads and try to ignore my aching joints. My chest may be on fire, but my focus is razor-sharp. At the other end of the ice, Oskar is as determined as I am. Neither of us is about to break.

Two minutes later, the score is still tied when there’s a TV timeout. Heaving a sigh of relief, I head for our bench.

Theo holds out his fist for a bump. “Good man, Kai. Keep their shots out of the net long enough, and we’ll get lucky.”

“We have to get into their zone first,” Noah says, backhanding Theo’s arm. “We’re fucking up every time we let them in front of our goal.”

Coach Holmer taps Theo and Noah on the shoulders. “Easy, boys. Rest for a minute.”

His Swedish accent is slight, but it reminds me of Oskar.

Not far away, Oskar is standing in front of the Fury’s bench. For a second, I hope he’ll turn his head, but he doesn’t.

Jace, loud as always, pipes up. “Send me in, Coach. I’ll get us a fucking goal.”

Holmer says nothing, but he must think it’s worth a try. He sends out the second line—Jace at center with Paquette on his left and Patterson on the right. Lindholm and Thompson are backing them up on D.

Back in my crease, I rub the left post with my glove and kiss the one on the right. Then I glance at Oskar, who’s already looking at me. I raise my stick, and when he does the same, my knees wobble a little.

When the puck drops, something has changed. The Fury are a little slower, their passes less sharp. It isn’t long before the Condors grab the puck and swarm into the Fury’s zone.

Jace sends a low pass to Paquette in the corner. Paquette fires a quick wrister that Oskar deflects with his blocker. When Lindholm smacks the rebound, Oskar shifts left. Easiest kind of save, letting the puck bounce off your pads.

The crowd roars, then breaks into our fight song. Our boys don’t let up. Thompson blasts a shot from the blue line that hits a skate, then a stick, before finding Jace’s blade. Jace fires low, and Oskar lets it rebound off his stick.

The Condors reset quickly. Another shot, another save by Oskar. He’s standing on his head, twisting his body in ways that don’t seem possible, but the Fury still can’t clear the zone.

Paquette gets the puck again and winds up. The slapshot rockets toward the top corner of the net, over Oskar’s glove.

Then things shift into slow motion. Jace, skating hard toward the net, loses an edge and careens into the crease. There’s a sickening thud as he crashes into Oskar, and a sharp metallic clang as the goal comes off its moorings and slides away. The ref’s whistle sounds sharper than usual.

I expect Oskar to get right up. Goalies do this all the time.

But he doesn’t.

In the chaos, men start shoving and yelling. The scrum swallows half the crease, and I hope nobody steps on Ozzy. As the refs struggle to pull the angry players apart, Ozzy remains still. A full-body shiver rocks me on my skates.