Page 78 of The Overtime Persuasive

Their forechecker leans into me. “Looks like the team is carrying you.”

I shove away from the boards. “Worry about your own game.”

“I am.” He grins. “You’re the weak side. I’m watching you.”

I skate away before I give him what he wants. Leaders don’t take stupid penalties because someone tried to bait them into a fight. I know that.

For most of the game, I remember it. The second period ends with the score still tied. New York takes the lead early in the third, but Campbell answers less than two minutes later, knocking in a rebound while their goalie is still searching for the puck. Two–two, and the game only gets uglier from there.

A New York forward hacks Owen’s glove after the whistle. Ty moves him away from the crease, controlled and steady, while I place myself between Owen and the next player trying to get involved.

“Back off,” I tell him, but he shoves me anyway. I know I shouldn’t…but I shove him once in return, then stop as the linesman moves between us. From the bench, Coach gives me a sharp nod.

Good. That’s what he wants. That’s what I need to keep doing. Play hard. Stay in control. Let someone else be stupid. Easy enough.

Except, five minutes later, I forget every bit of it when our forwards dump the puck into New York’s zone and change. Campbell reaches the bench as Tripp swings over the boards to replace him. I’m moving toward center ice when the puck comes around the wall.

I get my stick on it and send it back into the zone, and the play moves away, however New York’s number seventeen doesn’t. He drives his shoulder into me well after the puck is gone.

It’s a moment in time where things speed up and simultaneously slow down when my helmet catches the glass. Pain flashes across the side of my head, and I go down on one knee.

The Birdcage erupts as number seventeen stands over me. “Stay down where you belong, Snyder.”

I should stay down, that is correct. Not because I’m hurt. I’m fine.

But, I should stay down long enough to make sure the official sees the hit. I should get up, skate away, and let the next shift answer for me on the scoreboard. All of these thoughts are sane. Controlled. Professional.

Instead, I get to my feet and drive both hands into his chest. He grins, his gloves hitting the ice. Mine follow.

He grabs my jersey, taking a swing and missing, but I catch him with a punch. His head snaps sideways for a heartbeat and then he comes back immediately, fist clipping my cheek as we grapple for position along the boards.

The arena becomes one solid wall of sound as chaos ignites around us. Someone grabs the back of my jersey, a second player from New York who’s trying to pull me off balance while seventeen comes at me again.

Then, out of nowhere, Tripp is there, gloves off and ripping the second player away from me.

“You want somebody?” Tripp shouts. “You’ve got me.”

The other player swings and everything breaks open.

Ty puts himself in front of a third New York player before he can join, and Sawyer comes over the boards and gets caught in a scrum along the wall. Sticks and gloves litter the ice while the officials try to separate bodies.

In the middle of it all, seventeen comes for me again, but somehow a linesman wedges himself between us. He grabs my arm. “Snyder, stop.”

Across the ice, Tripp is still tangled with the other player. His helmet is gone, his hair hanging over his forehead as a second official tries to drag him away.

I'm being pushed into the penalty box while Coach shouts from the bench. Not at New York. He’s shouting at us. I don’t have time to contemplate what this whole debacle means now for my run at the alternate spot, because Tripp is chucked in the box with me.

The official separates us into opposite sections before announcing the penalties: five minutes each for fighting, but I get an additional two for roughing. Tripp earns a misconduct for continuing after the official stepped in. Perfect. Aren’t we leaders you can have your team look up to?

I drop onto the bench and press the heel of my hand against my cheek. It’s already swelling.

Tripp sits on the other side of the divider, breathing hard. I look at him.

“You came off the bench.”

He shrugs. “There were two of them.”

“I had it handled.”