Page 89 of The Big Puck

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, my voice deep and reverberating with all my emotions and I talk from my gut. “More importantly, I know how you feel.”

The anxious tension breaks. I can feel the air move sideways as it gives way to a different kind of tension. Excitement. Anticipation. The vision of winning and realizing the number one goal we set for ourselves.

With every face in the room intent on me, I clear my throat once and tell them all about the vision I set for myself and our team.

* * *

The arena’s announcer shouts, “Welcome to the last game of the season, the game that will decide first place in the division. The victorious team will skate away with the top place in the standings.”

The puck drops and we’re on. I say out loud to Kap who stands at my shoulder on the bench, “We’re going to win this fucking game.”

“If you say so, I believe it, man.”

The first two periods are tight and we’re tied up at one all. In the third period I start pacing along the back of the bench behind the players, muttering curses at the other team, at the ref, at my heart to slow down before I have a heart attack. I tilt my head to glance at Lainey far too often and every time I do, her eyes are on mine and her smile is sure and it calms me.

With five minutes left to go, there’s a commercial break and I get the Rafe-Hall-Chase line with the two freshest defensemen we have in a huddle.

“You’re up next and I want you to concentrate on the passing game. If the puck hits your stick, pass it forward. If you’re inside the blue-line, shoot the damn biscuit at the net, if there’s a shot at the net, go in for the rebound. Every damn chance you get.”

“Don’t worry, coach. I got this,” Jason says.

“You… go score your sixtieth fucking goal.” I slap him on the shoulder pads as the whistle blows and the game resumes.

A minute goes by and Rafe gets control of the puck, swinging around the back of our net. The Brawlers change their lines and Rafe passes the puck forward. Chase takes it on his stick, whirls to avoid a defenseman near the red line and passes it back to Rafe as he advances.

Jason streaks forward, unencumbered by any defense and Rafe puts the puck on his stick as he crosses the blue line. He hunches low and speeds up, a Montreal player on his heels, then leans left, pushes the puck to his right, in a move I’ve never seen him do before—neither has the goalie because he’s out of position.

Jason shoots the puck into the right corner past the goalie and into the goal. The red light goes on and the crowd goes wild. But before I can take a deep breath, my smile freezes because the ref and linesman swoop in waving their arms and blowing their whistles.

The announcer blares, “No goal.” The ref takes up a spot at the red line, turns on his mic and says, “The play was off-side.”

“Fuck,” Kap says. I press my com button to talk to our chief techie, “Charmichael, did you get that? Replay it. I want to challenge it.”

“Checking the angles now, so far inconclusive.”

The crowd is still noisy as they show replays in slow motion from two different angles. Neither of them show what I saw.

“I saw it Kap. We were on-side.”

The ref looks my way, then skates over. I shout into the com at Charmichael. “What do you have for me? Yes or no?”

“Not yet—”

I look at the ref and just as he’s about to skate away, I tell him, “We challenge the off-side call.” The ref nods, then skates away, disappearing for the review.

“You made that call without Charmichael, didn’t you?”

I nod as the team comes in, staying on ice, gathered around the bench.

“The goal was good, right? I wasn’t off-side,” Jason says with the edge of nerves in his voice as he watches the unconvincing replays on the Jumbotron. The guys tape his pads with their sticks, tap his back with their gloved fists and reassure each other as we wait.

I’m about to say something to them and I don’t know what it is, when the crowd comes to life. I glance up at the jumbotron to see a replay from a different angle than they showed before.

“That’s what I saw.” The camera zooms in to show the puck hit the stick—a fraction of a second before Jason’s skates hit the blue line.

“Is that what you saw?” Kap shakes his head.

I nod, my adrenaline pumping so I have to grip the boards to keep my hands from shaking. “I hope that’s what the ref sees.” Or whatever NHL gods are reviewing this call.