Page 124 of Cut Off
Eli’s at the glass—every stoppage, I catch him mouthing something that’s probably “GO, GO, GO!”
I told him I wanted to win this for him.
Five minutes in, the Seals draw first blood. Bad bounce, shot off a skate.
I hit the bench, sucking wind. McDavid claps me on the helmet. The next shift, he’s an animal. Chasing every puck, forechecking like he’s got a personal vendetta. He pins a guybehind the net, strips the puck, centers to Jenkins fresh out of the box—sniped, top shelf, tie game.
The place explodes.
It’s a knife fight from there.
The Seals don’t play clean. They hack at ankles, finish every check, run picks the refs “miss” every time. I pay for every inch of ice. I get dumped twice at the blue line, once barely missing a stick to the face. My ears ring, but I push harder.
Carter’s everywhere, covering mistakes before they happen. Block, recover, dish. I trust him tonight in a way I haven’t trusted a defense partner in years. He’s dialed in.
Jenkins can’t shut up. Every whistle, he’s in somebody’s ear. The Seals start to fray—after one shift Carter and I have to pull Jenkins off a guy who calls his mom fat. The only reason the bench doesn’t clear is because Coach is already threatening to bench Jenkins for the rest of the period.
The goals grind in: us, then them, then us again. By halfway through the second, we’re tied 2-2, and I’ve lost count of the bruises climbing up my ribs. At some point there’s blood on my glove; not sure whose. Doesn’t matter.
I keep glancing at Eli—habit now. Sometimes he’s rabbiting along the glass, tracing the puck with both hands. Other times he’s side-eyeing Dad, feeding him stats or predictions. Every time he catches my gaze, he does a fist pump, double or nothing.
It works.
It makes the pain background noise. It makes it worth it.
Period ends tied.
The locker room at intermission is like a war hospital. Trainers are working over Jenkins’ ankle with tape and what smells like Tiger Balm. Someone’s getting stitched up under an ear, and the doc is cursing about the angle. Guys don’t talk.We nod. We hydrate. We lock eyes, let the adrenaline do the work.
Coach draws a play on the whiteboard. It looks like chicken scratch, but everybody knows the assignment. Stay out of the box. Finish checks. Punish mistakes.
We go back out.
Third period is a brawl.
Seals are desperate. Two of their guys try running Carter behind the play. Jenkins jumps in, cleans house—two minutes for roughing, worth every second. The crowd is up, screaming. I see Eli bounce out of his seat, nearly upending Mom as he double-pumps his arms over his head.
We kill the penalty. McDavid wins a face-off in our own zone, wraps it up the boards to Jenkins. Jenkins takes it deep, draws three defenders, then feathers a backhand to me at the point.
I step into it.
Shot finds traffic—hits somebody, slow motion, and just barely trickles behind their goalie. The puck’s just sitting there.
Eli starts pounding the glass, screaming.
I dive for it, get a stick on it, shove it across. Goalie sprawls. Somebody else swipes, chips it through. Lamp lights.
We lose our collective minds.
But the Seals aren’t done. They answer, two minutes later, on a rebound. 3-3. It’s a fistfight all the way down.
Sweat in my eyes. Shifts are shorter now, fifty seconds and you’re gassed. Carter and I barely have time to catch a gulp of water before Coach is barking again. I think I’ve left pieces of my lungs on the ice.
Final minute, tied.
Seals call a timeout. I sit, head in hands, counting the seconds, trying not to look at the scoreboard. Trying not toimagine what Eli is hoping for, what kind of hero he wants tonight.
Doesn’t matter. I know what I want.
