Page 4 of Tough Score

I watch his eyes dart side to side, searching for my weak spot. He only needs a sliver of space to sink that three-inch puck into the net. He doesn't need much, just for me to fuck up by a mere few inches.

His defense is doing their job to keep my players off their left wing, and he gets out in front where my team won't reach him in time.

It's between me and him.

These are the moments I live for.

The moments that drive me to practice more hours on the ice than any other play on the Hawkeyes team.

The reason why I study every millimeter between goal post to goal post and practice stopping a puck in every possible pocket of open space until it's all just muscle memory.

A hockey puck can travel at speeds of over one hundred miles per hour, and with ten players out in front of me, of which five are trying to play hot potato with the puck so that I can't keep track of who has possession before they take their shot, muscle memory isn't just my best defense, it's my only defense.

I have to be able to react without even thinking.

Every one of my senses has to be acutely aware of my surroundings if I want any chance of stopping the other team from scoring.

I prepare for his assault.

Readying myself for the moment that he wields his hockey stick, taking a shot while aiming the puck in the direction that he thinks he sees a lack of coverage.

I widen my stance, my skates shifting under my weight on the ice, preparing myself to move in any direction to block the puck no matter where he decides to deposit it.

He pulls his hockey stick back and takes his shot.

Before I can even think to move, my body does it for me. I drop down to my knees stopping the puck with my pads before it can pass through between my legs.

Everyone scurries around the net, attempting to take control of the puck.

The goaltender for the other team skates further out front, almost as if he's expecting to celebrate with his team but he stops when he realizes that the puck didn't make it past me and their victory isn't secured.

He's too far off the net for comfort and I can already see him retreating—heading back for home.

The second I look down I realize that I could easily take possession. With only two seconds left on the clock and a clear shot at a defenseless goal on the other side of the rink, I make a split-second decision to do something I've only ever attempted in practice.

I take a deep breath, pull back on my hockey stick, and slap the puck as hard as I can. I can almost hear the sound of the puck whizzing through the air.

I watch in slow motion as the biscuit flies over the heads of the other players.

All ten of them immediately turn on their skates and start bolting for the other side of the rink as if their lives depend on it.

It might not be their lives, but our paychecks and our bragging rights sure as hell do.

In my peripheral, the entire stadium leaps to their feet, including all the players and coaches sitting in their respective boxes. The rink goes eerily quiet as everyone watches the puck fly over the ice, headed for its intended target.

I hear the faint sound of the opposing goaltender cursing out something like "Oh shit" as he tries to make a mad sprint for the net, which he left completely exposed.

In his defense, he couldn't have thought I would have taken that shot. It's only ever been pulled off a few times in the history of the NHL during an in-season game. It was a desperate attempt, but with two seconds left on the clock and an entire off-season of practicing the shot by myself in this exact same rink, I had to try.

The second that the puck drops onto the rink, everyone watches with bated breath as the puck slides into the net.

"SCORE!" the announcer yells over the loudspeaker, and the home crowd erupts in celebration. Meanwhile, the away team fans stare at the puck sitting against the net in disbelief.

The Hawkeyes team in the box go crazy, throwing whatever hockey gear they have in their hands up into the air. Hockey sticks and helmets fly everywhere as they jump out onto the ice and skate full force towards me, yelling at the top of their lungs, trying to compete with the cheers of the fans—but there's no chance they can yell over the sound of thousands of fans spraying beer everywhere and ripping their jerseys in full hulk mode as they lose their ever-loving minds over the goal I just made.

I glance up to see the scoreboard change from 3-3 to 4-3. The jumbotron shows my team picture with large letters overtop.

"GOAL!" it reads.