I look up at her now in the booth with her father next to her while she watches the play. We are winning by one, but the whole team is on shaky legs. We are down one defenseman, who got hit in the head behind the net. We keep getting penalties after penalties. Max especially takes stupid ass penalties. The coach is reaming his ass as we speak.
“Keep playing with that head up your ass, I’ll fucking scratch you the next game.”
He doesn’t say anything because when it’s his line’s turn to go on, the coach yells my name. “Grant, you’re on.”
I don’t wait to see what he says. Instead, I swing over the board, catching the puck in the neutral. I’m almost to the blue line when the defenseman behind me starts coming in on me, but I push harder, faster, and right when I’m about to shoot the puck I’m tripped straight into the goalie, my leg hitting the post.
The referee blows his whistle, pointing his arm to the middle of the rink, which means penalty shot. I get up, my knee stinging. I flex my legs back and forth to shake the pain out. Once I skate around a couple of times, the pain is gone. I skate to the middle of the ice where the captain is trying to argue with the referee about the call.
“It is what it is. He was all alone and you tripped him.” He blows his whistle, skating backward so he can give the lines man the puck. He places it in the center of the ice. All the other players are already at the benches, leaning and watching.
The referee blows the whistle. I skate around the puck till I move it with my stick, the sound in the arena almost deafening with boos. I skate to the right, cutting to the left, my eyes never leaving the way the goalie comes out of his crease and then goes back in. His eyes watch the puck on the blade of my stick. I move the puck from the front of my blade to the back, his eyes still following it. I move the puck back to the front of the blade, winding up a bit, the goalie coming out of his crease a little, giving me just enough space to put it back on the back of my blade, lifting it just over his shoulder, hitting the back of the net in the top corner. The crowd gets louder with the boos as the siren sounds. I skate to my bench where I give everyone a high-five, except for Max, who stands there glaring at me instead of putting his glove out.
The rest of the game goes off smoothly, with us ending the game with an empty net goal. We skate off with a victory of 4-2. I walk into the dressing room, the reporters all waiting outside to come in. The equipment manager comes in, closing the door so Coach can speak.
We all start to undress, throwing our jerseys in the big gray container in the middle of the room. We put all our equipment in the bag in front of us, getting it ready to be shipped to the next arena. “Good game out there, boys. Good effort for the most of you,” he says, looking directly at Max, who stands up and starts to walk out of the room. “I won’t tolerate someone pulling a tantrum on my bench because he doesn’t get his way.” Coach then addresses the room. “That goes for everyone. I don’t care if you are the star of the team. You don’t pull your weight, I’ll put someone who will.” He nods at the room. “Have a great few days rest.” And he walks out while I sit down to untie my skates. The door opens and the media comes in, most of them walking to where I’m sitting. I don’t get up. Instead, I do this sitting down.
“Great game out there, Matthew. Can you tell us how it felt being upped from the fourth line to the first line?”
My response is almost robotic. “I just play where I’m told to play, whether it’s the first line or the fifth line. I’m just happy to play.”
“Matthew, your game has blown up. Is there a reason that it’s sticking this time, instead of when you got drafted?”
I laugh as this guy is a fucking asshole, and always is. “Well, I was seventeen and didn’t know how good I had it. Now I know what I want and I’m going to get it.”
“Matthew, you got twenty-nine minutes of ice time tonight. Do you expect to stay at that pace or get cut down for the next time?”
I laugh. “Good question. I’m not the one to ask, though. Coach decides that.” I get up after my skates are off. “Thanks for the questions, guys.” I turn and walk out of the room while they go and interview other people. I walk out into the hallway. Karrie is leaning against the wall on her phone. She looks up.