Page 90 of Crease Collision

Fuck the fight. My focus is on the man who isn’t moving. His glove is by his feet, his stick is underneath him, and his blocker is over by the boards.

What the hell?

He still doesn’t move.

Don’t lose it. Ozzy’s okay. Just wants to be sure he doesn’t get up the wrong way and fall in the middle of the scrum.

Goalies do this. I’ve done this.

Get up!

My stomach twists into a knot.

About the time I’m ready to puke, his glove hand twitches. One leg kicks. He’s moving.

Which means he’s conscious.

Right?

The scrum’s breaking up, and players are moving out of the way.

Get up, Ozzy!

Okay. I imagine his hand on my back and try to control my breathing. I’ve been a goalie all my life, and we’re a tough breed. We resist injuries.

Get the fuck up!

I’m buzzing all over. It feels like a high-voltage version of the shock you get from a wall outlet.

I’m not panicking yet.

Not panicking.

But the calm I had is gone.

My heart sinks when the Fury’s trainer hurries across the ice toward Ozzy. When he kneels beside him, I say a prayer.

I haven’t prayed since I was a kid.

The crowd has gone quiet, leaving a ringing silence that makes it all feel worse. I’m still in my crease, eyes locked on Oskar. The trainer is blocking most of my view, but I can see his hands moving around Ozzy’s neck.

Why the hell won’t Oskar sit up? He keeps lying there, like something’s wrong.

God. Is something wrong?

Please get up, Ozzy.

I skate to our bench, where my teammates are talking softly. One by one, most of them look at me. Theo tries to smile. Nico looks grim. Noah nods but says nothing.

My eyes go back to Ozzy’s crease. He’s still down, but he’s talking to the trainer now.

The replays hit in my head on an endless loop.

Ozzy in his net, his head on a swivel.

Packy winds up. Packy shoots.

I knew it would go in. Hell, I was excited we were taking the lead.