Page 89 of Patrick
CHAPTER 24
TRICK
Skating in a wide arcing circle around the rink as the crowd goes wild, the spot light chases me. The announcer’s voice blasts through the Whit’s sound system.
“Let’s hear it for the Wildcat’s star center, Hockey East’s leading scorer, P a t r i i i c k Jennings!.”
I swing back around to take my place on the blue line where my teammates bang their sticks on the ice. I glance up in the stands to a few rows behind the penalty box to find Fifi and her friends sitting. I got them special tickets, far away from the seats for my family. Only Mom, Kathleen and Rory are here tonight.
Dad had a game with Daniel and the Rye High team. My belly clenches and I force Dad and everyone else from taking up my head space as the crowd settles down for the national anthem.
This is where I focus, concentrating on the flag and the championship banners hanging in the rafters, channeling the winning vibe, feeling the ice under my blades and the cold air invading my lungs, clearing my head, heightening my senses until every sensory input is extra vivid.
My mission tonight is crystal clear. I will be a scoring machine and my team will win.
There were rumbles in the locker room that NHL scouts are in the building for the game. The big showing of sports media gives the rumor credibility.
I use that possibility. right now as the anthem ends and the applause winds down. to ratchet up my energy and rev my skating engine.
The starting line-up takes their place around me at center ice for the opening face-off. Ignoring everything but the sliver of space above the ice where the puck will drop, I stand perfectly still and wait..
Like he’s moving in slow motion, the ref drops the puck and I snatch it from the air a fraction before it lands, sending it backwards to Van.
The game is on.
Starting the third period, the score is 3-3 and I have two of our goals. Van has the third.
Huddled at the bench, Zabra’s stares us down, his face a map of misery. “We need this fucking win. I don’t care who scores, but we need a fucking score.” He turns his hot glare on me as he wipes spittle from his mouth with a hanky.
“You, hot shot. You say you’re a hat trick scorer, well this is your chance to prove it. And I don’t care how you fucking do it, just do it.”
“Yes, sir.” Our eyes connect and for a beat, we understand each other, and take the same side, the one that wants to win this game, the one that cares about nothing else but winning right now.
Sully shouts, “One, two, three—”
Then as we raise our gloved hands in the air, we join him and shout in unison, “Go Wildcats.”
Skating to center ice for the third period face-off feels different. I feel empowered like never before with my former enemy Coach Zabra now on my side.
Feeling the full will of Coach and the entire team behind me, l scoring a third goal is inevitable. I’ll get a fucking hat trick and we’ll win this fucking game.
I’m dripping with sweat as the team manager squirts water at my face the instant I come off the ice. I don’t get far because there’s a massive crowd of players and media clogging the tunnel and blocking he way to the locker room.
The equipment manager grins at me. “Looks like we’re having an impromptu press conference here on the rubber.”
“Looks like you’re right.”
He takes my helmet, stick and gloves. “Great game, Trick.”
“Thanks.” I’m gassed and my voice is hoarse, so I grab a water bottle from him as I follow him for a few steps into an opening the crowd.
The sports anchor for the local TV station, who’s now familiar to me, zeros in with his mic raised in front of me before anyone else has a chance. His cameraman hovers close by and is ready to flash on the red light.
“They’re calling you Hat Trick Patrick. What do you think of that?” He’s friendly and familiar, but the camera’s red light turns on and I hear Coach’s command in my head not to steal the show.
But I am who I am.
“It depends who they are, but it has a ring.”
