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Molly shook her head. “That’s why I keep Phoebe with me. She’s got the loudest whistle I’ve ever heard.”
But instead of laughing about it, the two of them stood there looking so serious, my chest ached.
Phoebe reached out and squeezed my hand, then popped up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “See you after.”
Turning, I saw the rest of the team headed my way. Snagging Ilya, we came up with a quick strategy of our own. Then I grabbed Milo, Chris, and Calder for a chat. With determined steps, we headed for the player’s box. It was time to go to war.
With our pairings tonight, I was out with Hank. Where there would usually be some collegial joking, this time there was nothing but grave faces. The sneers on the faces of the Matadors told us Molly was right.
When the puck dropped, Calder nabbed it and passed it to Chris. The feeling of dread weighed me down more than I wanted it to, keeping my footwork from being as efficient as it could have been. I hated that I wasn’t in position in time since it meant the other team stole the puck and raced down toward Milo. Using the crossovers, I made up for some of the time, reaching the goal about the same time as the puck, but Milo landed on it and stopped play.
Regrouping, the puck dropped again, but this time the Matadors got it. With three of them all around Milo, plus two of us, too many feet and too many sticks caused a jam up and the puck got around Milo. While I hoped the fact that they scored would quell their bloodlust, it seemed pretty clear that wasn’t the case. But I had to get off the ice. My time was up and the next guys in the lineup headed out. From the player’s box, I stood shifting my weight from foot to foot. I couldn’t sit, much less stand still. I wanted to be out there, to protect the other guys. But Coach refused to change the lineups or let me stay out longer.
After a few line changes, I was back on the ice. Watching and waiting, I tried to use the uncertainty to propel me and make me sharper than I was when I first came out after the intermission. All we managed to do was prevent them from scoring this time, though. No score for us either. So, I came back to the box, waiting and wondering.
And then I heard it. A shrill whistle.
No! I wasn’t out there. It couldn’t be happening now.
Screaming at Ilya, I saw what Molly saw. Number 65 on the Matadors was bearing down on his left side. Kole must have heard me because he raced off to intercept him. Ilya had the puck and was headed for the Matador goal. He knew someone was chasing him, but instead of taking the normal path, he stopped and spun, taking it to the right and around one of their defenders. That gave Kole time to intervene, landing a solid punch to the guy’s ribs. Number 65 whirled around and began beating on Kole, but he was prepared for that. We all were. It was just a part of playing hockey.
Eventually, when the buckets flew off their heads and Kole took him down to the ice, the refs pulled them apart. However, only Kole was given a penalty. So, now our team was one defender down for two minutes, and the guy who went after Ilya was still out there. Fuck!
The energy in our player’s box was frenetic. We were all bursting to get out there and help, but the rules told us we couldn’t. All we could do was watch and hope our teammates could handle it without serious injury.
Looking out at Sam, the only defenseman left on the ice, he had a losing proposition. He couldn’t be there to protect Ilya and Milo at the same time. It was impossible. And even after I growled at Coach, he wouldn’t replace one of the forwards with a defenseman. I volunteered and he refused.
Our guys on the ice took on a formation unlike one I ever saw in the playbook. I realized it was in response to what they saw coming. The Matadors had control of the puck, but instead of being focused on scoring, they used the puck to try to pull the Cavaliers apart. It wasn’t going to work. They gathered up in front of Milo. All four of them stood in front of the goal, not even trying to take the puck from them, daring them to make a move.
As expected, number 65 leapt forward and threw the first punch at Ilya. This time, it was expected and everyone else leapt in. Refs blew their whistles, the clock stopped, and everyone was told to take a break while the refs reviewed the footage to determine who would receive the penalty.
It was time for the forwards to change up anyway, so when Ilya came back to the box with only a jagged cut to his cheek, I gave him a chin tip. He nodded to me that the cut was all there was. His shoulder was okay.
Ginny, our medic, came out to patch up a few of the guys enough to get them back out for the next change-up. With a few preventative swipes of her penlight, she determined there were no concussions and gave everyone clearance to play. Then the refs announced the penalties. Finally, number 65 was put in the box for two minutes. At least it got him out of circulation for a bit.
The rest of the game was played in the same intense manner. A few more fights and a couple black eyes later, the final buzzer sounded ending the game. Molly burst from her seat and raced down to the player’s box where most of the team had already filtered out except for Ilya and me.
“Peter!” she screamed, racing to him.
Ginny was just placing a couple butterfly bandages over my eye as I felt Phoebe’s hand grab onto mine.
I gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m fine, right, Ginny?”
She gave me a lop-sided grin. “Follow the light.”
Flicking the light across my eyes, I already knew I was fine. “No concussion, right?”
She stuck her penlight back in her green coat pocket. “Nope. You’ll live. I’d ice it tonight if you don’t want a goose egg there in the morning.”
I nodded.
Phoebe gave me a pointed look. “I’ll make sure he does.”
Glancing over, we saw Molly with Ilya. She had him in a death grip around his waist. He just let her relieve the tension that built up with all of us the last forty minutes.
I stood and noticed Phoebe kept hold of my hand. Something warm bloomed in my chest as I went over to check in with Ilya before heading to the showers.
“I’m so glad you listened to me, Peter!” she cried against his chest. “Jorgensen almost got to your shoulder!”
