Free Comeback by Catherine Gayle

dump-in from center. I had to make an impression if I was going to win back my spot.
    I didn’t have to wait much longer for some action to head my way. Colesy went off for a change, with Cody Williams—a guy we all called Harry because he was a dead lookalike for the British royal—coming on to replace him. Then it was time for 501 to go off for a replacement. He needed to be careful about the timing of his change, though, which any defenseman in the league should know. Damn if 501 didn’t pay attention. That was all it took for Nugent-Hopkins to get a stick on the puck. He steadied it and passed it up to a streaking Hall. There was no chance Harry was going to catch up to him. I was the only one who could stop the Oilers’ forward.
    I took a breath and blocked out the crowd, the rest of the guys on the ice, everyone on the benches. Focused in on the guy coming at me. It was just me and him.
    I had faced him plenty of times before. I knew his game well. Big guy. Lots of speed. Delicate hands. His eyes were on me, not the puck. He barreled in down the left wing side with a full head of steam. I knew he liked to deke a couple of times, and he might pull it to his backhand in an attempt to fool me.
    I skated out of my crease, cutting down the angle. Backed in with him. He moved it to his forehand. Backhand. Forehand again. I made my move about a half-second too soon. The puck sailed over my glove. Clang . Spun my head around to see the puck shooting off into the corner. No red light. Harry finally caught up to the play and regained possession of the puck. He turned it back up ice. I made a mental note to kiss the crossbar for saving my bacon during the next stoppage of play.
    In the blink of an eye, Eberle puck-jacked Harry and turned it into our zone, and then our boys were all in scramble mode, trying to race back so they weren’t caught out of position. Too late, though. It was a three on one, all three of the guys on their top line. Burnzie was our one defenseman not caught flat-footed. I focused on the puck carrier as Burnzie picked his moment and dove down to the ice to block a pass. But he picked the wrong moment. The puck floated just past his stick and onto Hall’s. I scrambled over to the other side of the net. The crossbar didn’t save me this time. The puck went five-hole, right between my legs before I could close it down. Red light. The Oilers who were on the ice had a little celebration, but we were still up by one.
    “Sorry, Nicky,” Harry said as he skated behind my goal. “I fucked that one up.” He tapped my pads with his stick before skating off.
    He had fucked up, but it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely, at least. Pretty much every guy on the ice could be blamed for some part of that foul up. Everything had fallen apart the moment I lost focus and 501 took a bad change. In the stats columns, though, it was going to look worse for me than for anyone else.
    It was just one goal. Not the end of the world, I reminded myself. I focused on the guys at center ice getting ready to take the next face-off. Bergy had sent out our top line of Babs, RJ, and Luddy, clearly wanting to regain the momentum. It didn’t exactly work out that way. The ref dropped the puck, the Oilers won it, and they were streaking in on me almost before I was set.
    The first shot went high, glove side. I got a piece of it but wasn’t able to snag the puck and stop play. The rebound went straight to another Oilers’ forward. Even their defense had activated on the play, pinching in and pushing hard for the tying goal. They made a couple of crisp passes while my guys flailed to get things under control. Not a good combination.
    Babs blocked a shot from the point and came up with a broken stick and the inability to put any weight on his left leg. His shout of Fuck! had probably been audible all the way up to the owner’s box because the whole arena seemed to take a collective breath. We needed to clear the puck for him to get off