Against the Boards
Like
a Frisbee on edge, the puck rolled away from Todd.
No, he thought. Don’t go in the corner.
“Pass it!” Matty yelled from behind.
Todd’s skate blades dug deep into the ice. The puck rolled against the boards in the corner of the rink. He reached for it with his stick.
Another stick struck his shin guards. Central’s defenseman. Big George.
Suddenly Todd felt a blow between his shoulders, pushing him face-first into the glass. He flattened against the boards, then crumpled.
In a daze, Todd saw Big George flash his mouth guard, smiling.
One of Todd’s teammates pounded on the glass from behind the bench. “That’s a penalty!” he hollered. “You can’t check from behind!”
But the referee did not blow his whistle.
Todd grabbed his stick from the ice and hauled himself up. Coach was waving from Eastside’s bench. Time for a line change.
Todd coasted over the ice on wobbly skates.
“I
was open,” Matty said as they reached the bench. Todd
just stared at him.
Coach patted Todd’s shoulder. “That was some
hit you took,” Coach said. “Are you OK?”
Todd nodded and adjusted the strap of his helmet.
“You can’t hesitate when you’re playing the corner,” Coach said. “Go in harder next time.”
Matty leaned forward, looking at Todd with a smirk.
“Yes, Coach,” Todd said.
“Good boy.” Coach patted him again. “Be ready to take those hits.”
Be ready? Todd thought. Big George outweighs me by forty pounds. He took a deep breath. “They should have given him two minutes.”
“Maybe so,” Coach said. “But checking is part of the game. Your job is to center the puck to Matty.”
“And my job is to score,” Matty said, butting in. “If I ever get a pass.”
“How would I know if you’re open?” Todd said.
“I yelled ‘Pass!’” Matty said.
“You yell that even when two guys are on you,” Todd snapped. He bit down on his lip and studied the rubber mat beneath his skates.
“All right, guys,” Coach said. “You’re supposed to be team-mates. And captains.”
The boards suddenly shook from a huge impact. Out on the ice, Big George stood over Rico.
Todd swallowed hard. He’d be back out there soon. He glanced at the clock—there wasn’t much time left. The score was tied. Eastside needed this win to make the playoffs.
Todd squeezed the knob of tape on his stick handle and kept his eyes on the action. Big George always dropped to his knees when an opponent wound up for a slap shot. He must have wanted to be a goalie, Todd thought. He can’t skate for beans.
A
shrill whistle jolted him. A face-off in Eastside’s
end.
“Matty, Todd, Kevin. Get out there,” Coach said. He grabbed Todd and Matty.
“We need you to work together.”
Todd stared hard at Matty. Matty stared back. They slapped their gloves together, then hustled onto the ice.
Todd stopped short in a wave of ice chips, settling into position. There was less than a minute to play.
Matty
skated into the face-off circle and then circled back to
Todd. “If I’m open near the goal, I’ll
tap the ice with my stick.”
Todd smiled and nodded.
“Are we playing hockey?” the linesman called.
“Yes, sir,” Matty said, skating over. He bent low, holding his stick like an oar, ready to plunge it toward the ice. His skates were spread wide for balance and leverage.
The linesman dangled the puck, then dropped it in a clash of sticks. Matty shoveled the puck backward.
The puck slammed into Todd’s stick and spun on its edge. Knocking it flat, Todd skated up the ice. He flashed across the center line at top speed. He knew that Matty would be trailing him, skating straight toward Central’s goal.
There was only one player in front of Todd: Big George, weaving clumsily backward. No smile now.
But someone was skating hard behind Todd. It was Central’s right wing, the only guy who could catch him.
Todd tore across the blue line, prodding the puck ahead. He had to act now. He yanked back his stick for a slap shot. Big George dropped to his knees, hands tucked to his sides in a shot-blocking mode.
Todd held his stick high. Big George slid across the ice, helpless to do anything but block the shot. But Todd brought his stick down quickly and got control of the puck, dodging past Big George. He was in the clear. No one to beat but the goalie.
Suddenly
something flicked at Todd’s ankles. The right wing
was on him.
The wing’s stick darted in and poked the puck away.
It skittered into the corner, against the boards.
Todd’s stomach tumbled as he went after the puck. Be there, Matty, Todd thought. There was no time to look.
Then he heard it: a tapping on the ice. Matty!
Todd swept the puck toward his unseen teammate, then felt the shove from behind. He slammed into the boards and bounced to the ice, landing flat on his back.
The next few seconds were a blur. Suddenly Matty’s smile flashed above him, his face framed by his upraised arms. The red light flashed above the goal. Matty had scored!
Todd could see his teammates celebrating on the ice and could hear the fans cheering in the bleachers. Eastside would be going to the playoffs.
