Page 57 of The Overtime Persuasive

The question is whether we’ll let them.

The puck drops, and Campbell wins it back. Ty collects it and slides it across to me.

I take two strides before sending it up the wall toward Sawyer. A Toronto winger closes on him immediately, driving him into the boards as the puck pops loose.

The first hit. Our first warning that tonight is going to hurt.

Tripp gets to the loose puck and tries to cut through the middle. One defender forces him wide while another reaches in with his stick.

“Wall!” I shout.

Tripp sends the puck around the boards instead. I pinch forward to hold the line, slap it back down low, and barely clear the Toronto winger coming at me, who clips my shoulder on the way past.

The team battles through the rest of the shift without a shot reaching either goalie.

When I turn toward the bench, Tripp is beside me.

“You had me through the middle,” he says.

My head snaps his way. “You had two defenders on you.”

“I could’ve split them.”

I shake my head. “You could’ve turned it over.”

He swings one leg over the boards. “We’ll never know.”

“Yeah?” I hiss. “I know.”

Three minutes later, we watch as Toronto scores. Their defenseman sends a shot through traffic, and Owen never sees the deflection before the puck changes direction and slips beneath his glove.

The arena falls quiet for one stunned beat, but one thing about Dominion fans is that they don’t get down easy. The crowd comes back, and it's louder.

Owen pushes to his feet and gives the posts a quick tap. Ty skates in close, says something to him, then heads for the faceoff circle. The crowd roars.

One goal doesn’t decide anything.

The next few shifts are fast and mean. Toronto finishes every check, and we return the favor. Sticks tangle, shoulders collide, and every loose puck turns into a fight along the boards.

Halfway through the period, their right wing comes across our blue line with speed. I see it and match him stride for stride.

He tries to cut toward the middle. I lower my shoulder, drive cleanly through his chest, and separate him from the puck hard enough to send him into the boards.

The crowd erupts.

Tripp collects the puck without breaking stride. He flies up the right side, cuts around one defender, and snaps a shot toward the far corner. It catches the crossbar and flies into the netting.

The whistle blows.

Tripp circles back toward me. “You couldn’t make that pass six inches farther ahead?”

I hold my hands out to my sides. “You couldn’t hit a six-foot net?”

“Just shut up.” The Toronto winger I hit skates between us. “I think you two need a minute alone.”

The winger shakes his head and moves toward the faceoff, and I glance at Tripp.

“You good?”