The restless pressure in my gut has only just dispersed, but my legs still feel as if they are covered in lead. I struggle internally to support the play as we enter the enemy zone. Encouraging shouts rise from the crowd as we battle for the puck, which is just ambient noise to the ears of the players. I rush towards the goal, attempting to screen the goalie so my centerman can acquire a shot; their defence will not have it. They force my stick off the ice and start to shove me beyond my stance. The foul smell of salty sweat is almost overpowering, and their breath isn't any better. I refuse to abide by their wishes and stand my ground, wrenching my stick free of their grasp. The puck is suddenly deflected out of the offensive zone and is soaring towards home territory. Our defence gives chase with the opponent's forwards right on their tail. I follow them into the neutral zone so I can support my defensemen. I hear a holler from Coach calling for all forwards to switch; I disengage from the play. We hastily switch players, my line heading for the far side of the already awaiting line. Breath heavy, I search for my water bottle. I give it a shake before drinking the chilled, refreshing liquid; the bottle's almost empty. I search the crowd for my mom or one of the twins to fill it up, but none of them are looking. I'm going to have to work with what I've got. Momentarily, I begin to perceive just how bulky and oppressive my gear is. All of which is realized while watching the other lines contend with Ashcroft. Our team is holding up, but the conflict for the puck is in our zone. The forwards set up for a breakout, the passes from the D are smooth and precise. The centerman receives the pass and is racing into scoring territory once again. As the forwards draw nearer to the bench gate, Coach calls for a change but it's too late. They're already engaging the Warrior's defence and are gradually advancing. The centerman tears through, heading straight for the net, the forwards are setting up to snag the rebound. He shoots and it bounces off the shoulder pad. The right winger chases it to the corner boards and passes it back to the awaiting left winger, one-timing it into the goal; the shrill note of the whistle confirms its genuine! The team goes wild, thumping the boards with skate toes and hockey sticks. The celebration reverberating through the rink. Coach orders a change; my line is skating for the faceoff circle a moment later. We congratulate the winger as the group glides by. Renewed energy surges through my body. We arrange ourselves at center ice. The score is now 2-0, and Logan Lake is in the lead; all we have to do now is maintain our lead. The puck drops and is instantly passed to the enemy's D. I surge towards them, pressuring them into surrendering the puck, but they abruptly convey the disc into an open area. Grinding the ice, I swing in that direction. Their centerman nabs it, and drives straight for the net. The D harass him into giving it up, but we're at the disadvantage. He maneuvers around both defensemen and snaps it at the top corner; the goalie snags it with his glove. Relief floods through me as the ref whistles for a pause play. Ashcroft changes their lines and our defence are switched; my line is to remain on. We line up at our right faceoff circle. The play is instantly resumed as the ebony, vulcanized disk hits the ice. The opponent passes it to their point, I get between them and the net. They wind up for a slap shot; it rebounds off my shin pad. I briskly pass the puck ahead of my centerman, and we're heading into the Warriors' zone once again. We're rushing through the neutral zone, when suddenly one of Ashcroft's defensemen strikes at him, slashing his legs. Seething rage, pure and hateful, swallows my being. Without a second thought, I've already thrashed him; so he can atone for hurting my teammate. The clamorous drone of the scoreboard is heard before the whistle. The 3rd period is in our midst. The teams assemble around their coaches to discuss strategy. Subsequently, the refs inform my coach that I will be starting off the next period in the sin-bin; #20 of Ashcroft, will be joining me. Irritation manifests on the faces of the majority of my team. We can't afford having a penalty. The next few minutes of the game are a hustle of dump and chase and a gamble of plays. When the penalty minutes have finally run out, I am, along with loathsome #20, released from that hateful box. (I've spent so much time in the penalty box, that I have become quite accustomed to it. It's gotten so bad, that if I have a penalty-free game, my team will feign astonishment). When I reach the bench, Coach opens the gate door for me. The break lasted barely a minute before I was on the ice anew. The lead that had been encasing my legs, has just begun melting away. I can feel strength surging through them, putting more power into my stride; adding a bit of a bite to the wind caressing my features. The play is in the enemy zone, we're engaged in a game of keep-away; passing the puck to any open player, driving for a better standpoint. My accompanying left winger passes the puck along the backboards. #20, my centerman and I all drive for it. I catch a glimpse of #20's stick rising and notice that my centerman's head is in its path. I immediately lock #20 in a pinning embrace, using my stick as a lever to keep him away from my teammate. As soon as he has skated out of the way, I release the player. I didn't do anything wrong and I am proud of myself for not smacking him instead. A few seconds later the play is stopped, and I'm dragged to the penalty box for cross checking. There was no way I had crossed checked him, but there's nothing I can do about it. (The Ashcroft refs are always on the Warriors side, turning a blind eye to all of their penalties except for the absolute obvious ones). While I'm in the box the Warriors wind up gaining a point, to my dismay. The game ends soon after, the score being 2-1 for the Logan Lake Blazers.
In most cases, penalties are given to me because I'm big, sturdy and rough; due to that fact, I tend to knock people over and injure them. The vast majority of the players in the league are also notably smaller than me and are frustratingly delicate. The Warriors #20 and my sister are the only exceptions to this problem. Caitlyn stays out of trouble because she's defence and is always letting herself get pushed around. #20 on the other hand, uses his size as a weapon and is prone to tripping, hooking, slashing, and bodychecking just because he can. This is the main reason I despise him. He's always injuring my team and I'm the only one that can stand up to him. These reasons are why I earned the nickname Goon: a player whose only talent is fighting, usually to keep the teams best players safe.