Page 140 of Heartbreak Hockey

What are you going to do, Leslie? Score a goal, Coach.

I chase after the puck, which is already sliding across the blue line and through center ice, faster than I thought I could skate. Someone’s chasing after me—whoever was close enough, didn’t see because I’m too busy getting ready to score like a war hammer.

In a last-ditch attempt to stop me, he catapults onto his belly on the ice, shooting his stick out. He narrowly misses, but I don’t, uniting solidly with the puck as I hit the attack zone. I’m on a damn breakaway and it’s just me and their goaltender now. I’m laser focused. It’s like I can see exactly where to shoot the puck, so it’ll go in.

Boom!I sink it sweetly into the net and the crowd erupts. I’m still heading toward the boards, so I skirt around them and lift my right skate off the ice, gliding back on my left as I punch the air. The team pours off the bench and surrounds me, knocking helmets with me and scream in my face.

“Woooo! Fuckin’ yeah, eh?”

“Fuck, yah, Leslie!”

“We got this, eh?”

Mercy—Coach—the fucking know it all is still grinning away, totally gloating. I’m not even mad though. I shouldn’t have doubted him. I might be biased, but he’s the best coach I’ve ever had.

The longest penalty in the history of hockey—I’m sure—finally ends in time for Casey to skate onto the ice for the last minute of play.

“No more easy penalties for them, guys,” Coach says.

Our team takes a collective sigh along with the crowd now that we’re back to full strength and we sail through to the end of the period in dire need of the twenty-minute break.

“We’re doing well out there, guys, but we can’t let our guard down. They want this almost as badly as we do,” Coach says when we’re back in the locker room between the third and fourth period because of course this game is going into overtime. He reminds us to keep our passes tight. He makes us do the breathing ritual as a team again.

By this point, adrenaline is in full swing and too much of it is pumping through me to care. We come into the fourth period—sudden death overtime—strong. I’ve got the puck and when I look up, Stacey’s there to accept it from me.

Wham!As the puck is leaving my stick, I’m hit hard against the boards. So fucking hard, I lose all my breath. When I try to inhale again, I can’t. I’m down. Keeled over. Trying not to panic.

The medical team is suddenly there.

Coach … Mercy too. He’s seething. “We’re not gonna call that one, eh, ref?” He mutters several curses under his breath. Now is not the time to piss the refs off so he’s quiet about his complaints. Any other game and he’d be out there, chirping at them.

“Mr. Leslie. Leslie? Where does it hurt?” one of the medics asks.

I would love to answer that. If only I had some air to do that with.

“He’s had the breath knocked out of him,” Mercy snaps as if they couldn’t have figured that out themselves. “Give him a second.”

It takes about ten that feel like an eternity. But then my lungs finally fill with painful air.

“There you go, baby. Slow and steady,” he says into my ear. His voice is like honeyed whiskey. Fuck I miss him. I stuff that down though. Way down. I can deal with that after the game.

“I-It’s he-here,” I push out, but it’s more like a mumble.

It’s Merc pressing into my flesh with gentle fingers, locating the damaged site. My hiss tells him he’s found it. “Here?”

I nod, exhaling slow.

“Bring him off,” someone says. “We’ll take a better look.”

No!Fuckthat. I’m not leaving this game. “I’m … good,” I wheeze.

“Don’t be a fool, Leslie. You’re coming off to get assessed in the very least if I have to drag you off the ice myself,” Mercy slash Coach slash overprotective boyfriend says.

The crowd erupts in loud cheers as I hobble off the ice and I’m sure my dad is biting his fingernails. He’s never gotten used to the number of bumps and bruises I get from a game. I gingerly sit on the bench where the medical team takes me through a round of assessments.

“Likely just the wind knocked out of you and a nasty bruise. Take these.” It’s two Tylenol.

I knock them back. “Good. I’m good. Put me back out, Coach.” Standing up, I wince and try to cover it over with an exaggerated smile.