CARTER'S SHADOW
Chapter 36 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
West laced up his skates, wrapping the tape around his socks
to keep them in place, adjusting the padding he was wearing one final time.
He was aware of his ribs burning angrily, reminding him that his suffering
was only just beginning; it was going to be a very long game.
He stood up, looking at his teammates; this was it, they were
ready, and they had come through so much. They were an entire line short,
their captain was injured, but they had still made it. The finals, and the
other team would be waiting for them out on the ice, just as eager as they
were.
West lifted his stick looking at Coach Highmore who was standing
impassively by the door to the locker room. Coach Thorburn flipped through
his clipboard and mumbled to himself as he thought through strategies on how
to fight that night. An old General readying his battle plan, surveying his
men, knowing that it all came down to that one game.
"Harding," Thorburn called out, "line one, you're
starting; Clovis, Paul watch his back out there." The two defence men
clapped their gloved fists together, affirming their commitment to do as much
harm to the other team as was possible within the rules--or not, if the ref's
back was turned.
As simple as that, Thorburn stood aside and gestured to the
door, "Get on the ice, give 'em hell."
West came out of the locker room first, leading his team through
the short passageway and through the door in the boards and out onto the ice
to the cheers, and jeers of the fans. The other team had the home-ice advantage,
but there was still a small group of dedicated parents and friends in one
section of the stands cheering madly as the Storm took the ice.
West squinted up at it and saw the small blond figure on his
feet cheering like a maniac. And West shook his head; Peter was the last person
he expected to see. He did a low, slow circuit of the ice and lifted his stick
in a salute, coming back around to their bench as his team began their customary
warm-ups.
There was a feel to the air at the start of a game, cool and
refreshing. He watched a moment, looking over at the other bench at their
opponent team, the Trojans, a group of Catholic schoolboys that had swept
the OFSAA playoffs cleanly, and were looking to take the gold medals away
from the reigning Champions.
"Careful," Highmore said coming forward to the edge
of the boards, and resting his elbows on them, subtly nodding to one of the
Trojan players practicing his slap shots on net, "that's Brendan Watley,
he's a first-round NHL pick this year. He's all-pro."
West gaped as he turned. "Shit," he murmured, as Matt
slid to a stop beside him. "Their Goalie's name's Pat McAllister,"
he murmured breathlessly. "Supposed to be good, but I'm better,"
he smirked as he nudged West's arm. "Get me the puck and I'll get it
past him."
West nodded. "I'll get you the puck," he reassured,
taking a moment to meet Highmore's eyes.
The young coach was studying him again, and West cocked his
head to the side. "Thinking about what you're going to say when we win?"
West asked confidently.
Highmore smiled, "I was just thinking, you're all insane
enough to actually pull this off. "Let's go Storm," he intoned with
a certain reverence.
West skated backwards, turning on the ice to look over at Brendan
who was watching him. Two opposing captains sizing each other up, as they
passed each other. Cold eyes filled with anger and hate mirroring each other.
It wasn't about the man, it wasn't about the game, it was about what the other
team represented. They were out to beat them; they were in the way of that
all-important win.
West adjusted his helmet as he took centre ice, staring into
that face; Brendan's jaw was clenched, but his eyes were boring right into
West's as he set his stick on the opposite side of the puck. Jaws grinding
in anticipation. It was all about the puck, get the puck, pass the puck, touch
the puck, and caress the puck. Do what ever needed to be done to tickle the
twine and claim a goal.
Winning was every boy's dream, the treasured thought of victory
and ultimately life. They had been bred for that, taught from a young age
to strive towards it, and it all started the moment the puck touched the ice.
As the Ref lifted it, and West's muscles tensed--he was facing off against
a future NHL star. A flick of his eyes, showed Highmore leaning forward with
his arms crossed, his breath held, a man who had turned down the NHL...
The puck dropped, and it was a mad scramble to get it. Brendan
was fast, West was faster; he clipped the puck through the surprised captain's
feet and swept around to intercept it, his breath catching from the exertion
as he sprinted up the ice. Matt sped around the Trojan's defensemen; the short
winger was too small, too fast for the bulky defensive core to stop, and West
was in perfect position, Brendan hot on his heels, trying to throw him off,
to stop him from trying to score. That was his mistake--West grinned tightly,
West wasn't trying to score. The puck sailed across the ice to Matt, who was
set up perfectly to send a slap shot towards the goal.
Pat McAllister's glove moved with astounding speed, catching
the slap shot cleanly, and Matt's eyes went wide as he curved around the goal,
staring in shock at West, who had slid to a stop before the goal.
McAllister was staring into his glove with the same kind of
shock Matt was showing, Brendan confidently skating past West. "Nice
try," he sneered, skating back towards his bench for a line change as
they set up another face-off.
West followed his teammates back to their bench, Thorburn and
Highmore clapping them on the shoulders as they came off the ice.
"Holy shit!" Matt was shaken. "How'd he do that?"
"We were all over them," Thorburn was saying, sending
his second line in, "we had them beat...how?"
"Luck," Highmore said firmly, "'cause not even
a pro could pull that save off twice." He nodded to Matt, his eyes sparkling,
"No one's that lucky."
Matt nodded, slowly, not quite convinced.
* * *
It had been a scoreless first period; Peter was sitting anxiously
in his seat, as West sipped a mug of coffee he had bought from the concession
stand. It had been a nerve-wracking first period. Even Will had to admit he
was finding it interesting, though he had no understanding of the rules, or
what was really going on.
"The Trojan captain's good," Peter said in awe.
"He is?" Will asked blankly. "Which one's the
captain?"
"That one," Peter pointed. "West's having a hard
time with him."
"Right," Will nodded, taking another sip from his
coffee, wondering if he nipped off to the bar they'd Irish it up to ward off
the chill of the arena, and let the game pass a little quicker for him. But
this was as much Andrew's moment as it was West's. This was Andrew's team--he
coached and trained them, and he had helped bring them to the finals. Will
felt a certain pride about that.
"How long are the intermissions?" Will inquired looking
about him as the Zamboni did another circuit of the ice.
"Ten minutes or so," Peter replied, nestling down
into Will's leather jacket that he had again borrowed because they hadn't
had time to stop and pick up his on their way down to Toronto. Will had just
settled for layers of sweaters, and lots of piping hot coffee.
"Thanks for bringing me," Peter said, taking a moment
to nestle in against his big brother.
Will nodded at his suddenly affectionate sprog. "Anytime,
you know that," he reaffirmed with a smile.
Peter nodded. "Yeah I do," he said sitting upright
again. "Still, thanks."
"You're welcome," Will said getting up. "I need
a refill," he explained, waggling his cup.
Peter smirked, "Addict."
Will chuckled and wandered up towards the concession area.
* * *
It was at the start of the second period that it happened. West
had won another face-off against Brendan, and had started another rush on
net, trying to get past the defensemen, when he took a pass across to Matt,
his stick connected off angle and jarred against the ice. Ordinarily the blow
would have simply been shrugged off, but it arced through his ribs like a
knife, and he found himself on his knees, staring blankly at the ice.
Behind him the noise of goal resounded; Brendan had capitalized
on West's fall, sweeping the puck back and taking a long shot that one of
his teammates tipped into the net.
West closed his eyes against the nausea as he slowly got to
his feet, staggering back towards their bench, catching the boards as he tried
to keep his feet; the pain in his side was almost unbearable and he swayed
a moment as Highmore caught him and helped him into the bench.
Thorburn was down on his other side, pressing his hands against
West's side and shaking his head. "He's not going to make it," he
murmured grimly.
Highmore was sending the second line out onto the ice, as he
turned. "Send him to the locker room?" he asked.
Thorburn rubbed his jaw and shook his head, looking across to
the Trojan's bench, where Brendan and the Trojan's coach were discussing something,
glancing over at them and nodding.
"They know he's hurt," Highmore warned.
"I know," Thorburn replied kneeling down to look at
West. "I need you to hang in there a little longer, Harding, can you
do that for me?" he asked, gripping West's shoulders.
West grimaced and nodded, "Y-yeah..."
"Good." Thorburn stood up, "Sit him out the rest
of this period, let him rest up, Clovis you're taking the first line..."
"Keep up the pressure," Coach Highmore advised, leaning
in to speak to Clovis and Matt directly. "The more shots you take the
more chance you have of getting past their goalie."
West rested on his stick, his forehead touching the wood as
he tried his best not to be sick. They were a goal down, his side was killing
him, and his team couldn't seem to break through McAllister's shutout. It
was as if his glove were charmed; Matt would set himself up, receive the shot
and keep pounding away at the goal, but it just seemed that the Trojan goalie
lived up to his team's name by refusing to let anyone score.
His team was getting frustrated; Clovis kept cursing loudly
at each missed opportunity, the defenseman taking out his frustration by nailing
one of the Trojan wingers, a mistake that cost the Storm dearly as he was
sent to the penalty box.
Brendan took the time to sweep past the Condor's bench and grin
at West, shaking his head as he set up for a power play face-off. West gripped
his stick tightly, as he tried to stand up.
They fought valiantly, trying to block the power play, but they
were badly outgunned, and Brendan tucked a second goal away for the Trojans,
as he swept back up the ice and shrugged to West.
"Sorry," he lied smugly.
And Thorburn drove his fist down onto the boards in frustration,
as Highmore hung his head in dismay.
* * *
"What's wrong?" Will asked leaning forward in his
seat.
"We're two goals down," Peter explained shaking his
head. "They're not going to do it..."
Will stared down from the seats and looked right at Andrew;
the junior coach was directing as best he could from the bench. From the look
in his eyes, the way he kept running a hand through his hair and looking at
the goalie, Will knew Andrew wanted to be out there, on the ice. But he wasn't
on the team anymore, all he could do was stand by and watch, coaching them.
Those sapphire eyes looked up to where Will was sitting, and
Will met them, offering a nod to the man he loved. Trying to communicate that
he understood all too well what Andrew was going through.
* * *
The dawn of the third period saw the Storm reluctantly taking
the ice, bruised and battered. But they were still fighting, outshooting the
Trojans and playing with everything they had.
Two minutes into the third period West was leaning on the boards
looking at Coach Thorburn, who was conversing in a low tone with Coach Highmore.
"It'll work," Thorburn said gruffly.
Highmore spared a glance at West and then at the senior coach,
"I don't like using a person as bait..."
"You up for it Harding?" Thorburn asked, turning,
knowing that West had heard every word.
"Yep," West nodded, looking over at the Trojan's bench.
"Good," Thorburn said, looking at Highmore, "set
up the play."
Highmore for his part gave West a concerned look, but sketched
out the play quickly so the first line could see it moments before they took
to the ice, West once more staking out for the face-off.
* * *
"Are they nuts?" Will asked Peter. "The kid can
barely stand..."
Peter's face had turned ashen white as he shook slightly, concern
and worry etched across his young face. He watched as the Trojan's captain
nudged his two defensemen and pointed towards West.
"They're going to go after him," Will observed, looking
over at Andrew who stood with his arms folded pacing the length of his bench;
he only did that when... Will looked down again at West, and again over at
the defensemen, the Condor strategy becoming clear to him almost before the
puck touched the ice.
"You claggy son-of-a..." Will murmured impressed.
* * *
West tapped the puck aside, slipping it past Brendan as he broke
left, Matt intercepting the puck and passing it back to Clovis, the two defensemen
and Brendan moving to corner West, the intent to check him into the boards
and end the game for the Condor's injured captain.
So intent on going after West, they ignored the fact that Matt
had slipped right past them, as Clovis casually deaked and passed the puck
across to him. Matt's stick work was amazing, the goalie sweeping from side
to side in the net, trying to anticipate the shot, leaping to the right as
Matt feinted a shot, and neatly backhanded the puck into the opposite corner...
The two defensemen closed on West, colliding with him as they
went down in a heap connecting with the boards solidly. Yet somehow, out of
it he managed to get back up; the pain was intense, but he hobbled back towards
the centre. Brendan sneered as he took the opposite face to West.
"You got lucky," he snarled.
West shook his head, coughing despite the pain. "Nope,
you got stupid," he said, smiling.
Highmore leaned forward, one foot braced against the bench,
his fist closed and his elbow resting upon his knee, a pose of a man with
everything riding on a single play. If he wanted something badly....
West looked over at Highmore and nodded, as the puck dropped
again.
The Trojans were unbalanced; they'd tried to get West the last
time and had left themselves open to Matt's dazzling stick work, now they
tried to compensate too much the other way, as West again beat Brendan to
the draw. The defensive core repositioned to cover the small winger, who slid
to a stop and cheerily waved at the two broad-shouldered men who were bearing
down at him.
Confused for a second, they realized he didn't have the puck,
and they searched for it. As West sprinted past the blue line on a breakaway,
Brendan hot on his heels.
* * *
"Go, go, go, go, go!" Will was on his feet, along
with everyone else in his section.
* * *
"Go!" Highmore clenched his feet and pounded his knee.
* * *
"No..." Brendan swore, as West drew back...
* * *
The arena went berserk; Peter grabbed Will as the two of them
danced in the aisle, Will staggering a second to stop himself falling down
the steps, as Peter clung to him tightly, cheering for all he was worth.
* * *
West rounded the goal clutching his side as he skated lazily
up to Brendan. "Sorry," he said with a shrug, "that was me
being lucky."
"It's still a tied game," Brendan threatened, taking
a menacing step forward on his skates.
"Not for long," West vowed, looking at his teammates
who were whooping and cheering as if they'd won already.
