Free Winter Hawk Star by Sigmund Brouwer

Tigers’ net, hoping to deflect a puck in for a goal. Instead, when our defenseman had fired the slap shot from the point, the puck had tickedoff the stick of a Tigers forward as he tried to block the puck. It had changed direction too quickly for me to duck and had nicked the edge of my jaw, sending me to the ice and stopping the play.
    Now I was sitting in the players’ box. Scotty had my head tilted backward to examine the bottom of my jaw. All I saw above me was his face. Along with Coach Estleman’s face and that know-it-all smirk.
    I felt the warmth of blood as it trickled down my throat. Scotty wiped it away with a towel. On the ice, play continued. The third period had just started, and we were ahead of the Tigers 5–3.
    â€œPretty deep cut, Scotty,” Coach agreed. Out came another smirk. “It’s the perfect excuse for Tyler to leave the game. An injury sounds a lot better than just plain quitting.”
    â€œUnnunnh,” I tried to say. It is difficult to speak when someone is holding your chin. I yanked my head away. More blood gushed down the skin of my throat. I pulled the towel out of Scotty’s hand and pressed it against the cut.
    â€œButterfly it,” I said. “The stitches can wait.”
    â€œYou’re sure?” Coach Estleman asked. “If you step back onto the ice, you’re going to face pressure. Leave now, and you can walk around the stands with your Portland Winter Hawks jacket and look cool.”
    â€œButterfly it. I want to play.”
    Coach’s smirk changed to a grin. “This afternoon’s talk made a difference?”
    â€œI want to play.”
    Coach nodded at Scotty. “Butterfly it. The boy wants to play.”
    Coach Estleman left me and started his usual pacing behind the players. He shouted instructions to players jumping onto the ice as others stepped into the players’ box. I could barely hear him above the crowd’s constant noise.
    Scotty opened the first-aid kit and took out a bottle of iodine and a butterfly-shaped bandage. He dabbed iodine carefully over the cut, and then he used the bandage to pull the skin together tight enough to stop the bleeding until the game ended. Theywould send me to the hospital for stitches later.
    The good thing about getting cut in the heat of a game is that the pain doesn’t hit until much later. I was ready to play. One shift later, Coach Estleman sent me onto the ice.
    Fine, I told myself. Coach thinks I’m a quitter? I’ll score a goal and then make him eat the puck for breakfast.
    Although the crowd was roaring its usual hometown support, I didn’t look around the stands the way I usually did. I only had eyes for the puck.
    Our shift began with a face-off on the left side in the Tigers’ end. The ref dropped the puck. Pat Casey, my center, managed to pull the puck back toward our defenseman on the Tigers’ blue line.
    Casey broke hard for the net.
    Instead of clogging the middle by breaking for the net myself, I drifted backward, finding open ice.
    John Mason, on defense, faked a slap shot.
    The Tigers’ forward, rushing up, fell for the fake and dropped, sliding with his body stretched to block the shot. John easily pulled the puck to the side, and the Tigers’ forward slid harmlessly by.
    I yelled for the puck. I had my stick high in the air, ready for a slap shot.
    John snapped a pass toward me. It was coming so fast, I didn’t have time to think about what I was doing. I just reacted, going into motion the way I had done hundreds of times in practices.
    Timing it perfectly, I hammered my stick down at full speed just as the puck arrived. I redirected the puck, slapping it two feet off the ice at the net. It drove through a maze of players and found the mesh of the net behind the goalie.
    The red light blinked as the goal judge behind the Plexiglas confirmed what I already knew.
    I’d scored!
    I was mad enough at Coach Estleman