Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
As Coach West steps out, leaving us to our final moments of preparation, my focus sharpens. I close my eyes, visualizing the plays, the precise movements I need to execute. The adrenaline courses through my veins, heightening my senses, and yet, there’s a moment of stillness reserved within that is my bridge to the passion I have for the game. I was born to do this and nothing makes me happier or more fulfilled than being part of a team and coming together for a common goal to win a game.
With my mind sharpened and my spirit ablaze, I open my eyes, ready to step onto the ice and face the Ottawa Cougars. This game is not just about going to the top of the division standings—it’s a chance to prove our resilience, our determination and our unwavering belief in one another. We step onto that ice as warriors, united in our quest for victory.
♦
The game is in full swing, the intensity on the ice palpable. We’re five minutes into the first period and I take the ice with my line. Ottawa’s veteran defenseman, Frederik Lyon, has been taking potshots at Coen during our first few shifts and I give back a little of what he’s been doling out. The puck gets jammed up on the boards and I push Lyon hard in the back with my stick.
He tries to throw an elbow back but misses. The puck squirts free and I give it a push toward Stone, who sets us up for a new play.
With Kirill and I creating a distraction in front of the Cougar goalie, Stone, Coen and Boone execute passes until Boone takes a slap shot. It whizzes by my shoulder, straight for the net. It bounces off the goalie’s pads and a scrabble starts in front of the net but Coen hangs back, ready to initiate the start of another play if we can pop it out to him.
All eyes are on the pileup in front of the net and that’s the perfect opportunity. Lyon goes crashing into Coen, hitting him from behind and knocking him to the ice. The Ottawa crowd erupts in cheers as Coen scrambles to his feet, but the puck is covered up by the goalie and the play is stopped.
I skate over to Coen. “You all right?”
“Yeah… fucker is a dirty player,” he grumbles.
“Oh, he’s going to get his,” I promise, the desire to retaliate and defend my teammate burning hot. As the team’s enforcer, it’s up to me to carry the message that shit won’t be tolerated.
The face-off occurs in the defensive zone and I line up to Lyon’s right. “Going to kick your ass for that bitch move,” I tell him.
“Fuck off, Hillridge,” he says.
The ref drops the puck and Ottawa wins the face-off. I don’t pay a lick of attention, instead turning my stick parallel to the ice and shoving it into Lyon’s chest. Not enough to knock him down or even really hurt, but just enough to piss him off.
He curses and glares.
I drop my gloves, the sound of them hitting the ice like a war drum as I make my challenge. “Come on, asshole.”
Lyon doesn’t hesitate, agitated enough he slings off his gloves. My fists clench, ready to brawl, and Lyon pulls up his sweater sleeves.
With an explosive burst of energy, we fly at each other, our bodies colliding with bone-jarring force. The crowd erupts into a cacophony of cheers, the Ottawa fans drowning out those Titans fans in small pockets around the arena. Everyone loves a good fight and it can energize a team.
I manage to get a handful of Lyon’s sweater in my left fist, twisting the material to strengthen my hold. My right hand draws back and I land a hard jab to his jaw. His head rocks so hard his helmet comes off. This guy hasn’t affronted me personally, but he did make the mistake of going after one of my mates and that has to be punished. My fist connects again, this time a hook to his temple. I can tell it staggers him as both his hands try to hold on to me for leverage. The fucker manages to tie up my right arm.
With a heave, I jerk it free, ready to throw one more punch, but his legs go out from under him and he drags me down. I land on top of him hard and his hold on me is broken. I’m able to draw back, ready to let my fist fly, but the refs and linesmen crash in on us and I’m pulled off the asshole.
The crowd goes eerily silent, embarrassed and cowed that Lyon just got his ass kicked. Five-minute major penalties are called on both of us and we’re sent off to our respective boxes. I flop down on the bench as the door closes and grab the water bottle there. The Ottawa crowd sitting behind and to the left of the box bangs on the glass, yelling obscenities at me. I ignore them in favor of watching the slo-mo replay on the jumbo screen above.