Page 108 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
Their winger cuts wide. I stay with him, mirroring, keeping my body between him and the net. This is my job. Sure, I score goals—long-range shots—and I’ll join a rush, but my main job is to prevent goals. (Although, yes, I’m on the points board. Please.) I am the last line between the puck and Wyatt, and I stop the puck by reading the ice early enough that I’m never late.
Conrad wins possession in the corner and kicks it back to me at the point.
I look up. Quick scan—Vasquez driving the net, defender on his back. Blade streaking down the left side, half a step ahead of his check. The goalie’s cheating right.
I fire low. Hard. Screen pass, not a shot—the kind of point shot that’s meant to be redirected.
Vasquez tips it toward the goal.
It skips wide of the post by eight inches.
Close. Not close enough.
I get back in position. And then—because I’m an idiot—I glance at the box.
Empty.
I’m looking at the box when their center picks off Conrad’s clearing attempt at the red line. I’m looking at the box when he feeds it wide to the winger. I’m looking at the box when the winger cuts inside and the lane I’m supposed to be closing is wide open because I’m not in it.
The shot gets through.
Wyatt stops it—pad hitting the ice, freezing the puck. The whistle blows and I shake it off, trying to pull myself back into the game.
“Benson.” Coach Jacobsen’s voice from the bench. No other words.
I know. I skate to the bench for the line change.
Second shift, I drop onto the ice, head in the game. The box doesn’t exist. There are three periods of hockey to play, and I’m going to play them with my whole brain.
Their top line faces off against ours. Their center is good—likes to work off the half wall. But I’ve spent the last week watching the tape. I know his tendencies the way I know my own.
He sets up left of the circle. I drive him into the corner as he receives the pass, all my weight behind it, and for a few seconds it’s just two men in a wall, battling for the puck, sticks tangled, skates churning for purchase on the ice. His elbow finds my ribs, mine finds his, and I’ve got sixty pounds on him.
I win it.
Conrad is already coming off the wall. I hit him with a short pass, he pivots, and we’re moving the other way—a clean breakaway, three on two, Vasquez and Candy pushing the wings.
I follow the play up ice, just inside the blue line, controlling the gap. If this breaks down, I need to be back. If it doesn’t?—
Candy shoots. Goalie’s glove.
The puck comes back out to the point. To me.
A one-timer.
I wind up before their goalie’s had a chance to reset. The lane is there. I can see it and—and I look at the box.
What? Stop it!
One second. Less than one second.
The lane closes.
I shoot anyway. The goalie gets a piece of it. The puck deflects wide and into the corner, and the chance is gone.
Conrad slides onto the bench beside me at line change, sweat dripping down his temple. He squirts water into his mouth, eyes on the game, and then: “You’re distracted.”
“I’m on it.”
