Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
48. The National Championship
Coming of Age Story: 48. The National Championship - Defenceman: Parallel Ice (A Non-Canonical Saga) builds on Cold Creek’s Defenceman series while offering a new interpretation. Michael Stewart’s journey extends beyond the rink into intrigue, modeling, and the launch of his AI: Aegis. From Ann Arbor to London, Japan, and Spain, the story explores honor, love, betrayal, and resilience. Rivals and allies test his limits in the arena, courts and shadows—where triumph demands sacrifice and heart both on and off the ice.
Caution: This Coming of Age Story contains strong sexual content, including Romantic Celebrity Sports Interracial White Female Oriental Female White Couple Royalty AI Generated
The Gathering Storm
Sharpening the Blade, March 28 - April 6, 2011
The morning of March 28th starts with the familiar ritual of the training room—the antiseptic smell, the cold metal tables, the trainers’ hands probing and pressing with clinical precision. The rest of the team is scattered around the room, some getting taped up, others nursing their own collection of bruises from the North Dakota war.
“Deep breath,” the trainer says, pressing the stethoscope to my chest again. The bruise from the block has bloomed into something spectacular overnight—a purple and black kaleidoscope spreading across my sternum like spilled ink.
“Clear,” he announces. “No fracture. Just soft tissue damage. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky,” I repeat, wincing as he presses an ice pack against the worst of it.
“Ice baths,” he says, pointing toward the back room. “Twenty minutes. No arguments.”
I groan but don’t protest. The collective groan from the guys around me tells me I’m not the only one getting the cold shoulder today.
The ice bath is exactly as miserable as it sounds. I lower myself into the tub, the shock of the cold hitting my system like a slap. The water bites into my skin, numbing everything from the waist down while my chest throbs with that bone-deep ache that won’t quite fade. Around me, Noley and Zonk are in their own tubs, their faces twisted in matching expressions of suffering.
“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Zonk mutters through chattering teeth.
“Coach’s orders,” I manage, my breath coming in short gasps as my body adjusts to the temperature. “Light practices, ice baths keep the edge without peaking.”
“Easy for him to say,” Noley grumbles. “He’s not the one sitting in a frozen bathtub.”
When we finally drag ourselves out of the tubs and into the meeting room, Coach Benson is waiting. He doesn’t waste time on speeches. He taps the projection screen with a laser pointer, illuminating a single logo: the maroon and gold eagle of Boston College.
“The bracket is set,” Coach says, his voice cutting through the lingering exhaustion in the room. “We have BC in the semifinal. Defending National Champions. They’re fast, they’re disciplined, and they believe this trophy belongs to them by right.” He lets that sink in. “They want a track meet. We’re going to make them grind. The next ten days aren’t about staying fresh; they’re about taking them apart piece by piece. I want you to know their tendencies better than you know your own names.” He scans the room, meeting every pair of eyes. “If we let them skate, we go home. If we make them grind, we play for the title.”
The practices that week are exactly what Coach promised—controlled, precise, designed to maintain sharpness without burning us out before the biggest games of our lives. We run through systems, review video, and work on special teams. The intensity is there, but it’s measured. A blade being honed, not hammered.
I even manage to slip away to Sensei Ogata’s dojo one afternoon; the familiar scent of cedar and tatami grounding me the moment I step through the door. Asuka and Rika are waiting on the mat, their expressions unreadable.
“You look like you got hit by a truck,” Rika observes, her eyes flicking to the way I’m favoring my left side.
“Ninety-mile-per-hour puck,” I say. “Close enough.”
We don’t spar, not really. Instead, we flow through kata, the movements slow and deliberate, focusing on breath and balance rather than impact. It’s exactly what I need. The pressure of what waits in St. Paul, the expectation, the weight of everything converging on the Frozen Four, all of it fades into the background as I move through the familiar sequences.
Asuka adjusts my stance with a gentle touch, her voice soft. “Your center is off. You’re protecting the injury.”
“Hard not to,” I admit.
“Acknowledge it,” Sensei Ogata says from his position near the shomen, his voice carrying that calm authority that brooks no argument. “Then release it. Pain is information. It does not control you.”
I breathe. I adjust. I find my center again.
Back at the condo, the energy has taken a different form.
Hanna and Melissa have essentially commandeered my kitchen, transforming it into a makeshift command center. Laptops cover the island, phones buzz constantly, and the smell of coffee has replaced any hope of actual cooking.
“You have three interviews today,” Hanna announces as I walk through the door, not looking up from her screen. “Two arranged by Angie, one that Melissa set up with Sports Illustrated.”
“SI wants a feature,” Melissa adds, her phone pressed to her ear. “Human interest angle. The surgery, the comeback, the Triple Crown chase; its good exposure.”
I pour myself a Diet Coke and lean against the counter, watching them work. “Do I get any say in this?”
“You get to show up and be charming,” Hanna says, finally looking up with a grin. “That’s your job. We handle the rest.”
The interviews blur together; the same questions asked in different ways, the same soundbites polished and delivered with practiced ease. I talk about the team, about Coach Benson’s system, about the block that everyone keeps calling “heroic” even though it was just instinctive. I deflect questions about the surgery, about the pain, about whether I hesitated.
“If you hesitate, you lose,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time. “The puck doesn’t care about your medical history.”
Between interviews, my phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Congratulations pour in from everywhere—texts, emails, voicemails from people I haven’t talked to in months. Emma sends a message full of exclamation points and heart emojis, promising she’ll be watching from Providence. The Duke sends something more formal but equally warm, expressing his confidence in our success. Even Dušan Radanović, the BIA officer who helped us navigate the chaos in Serbia, sends a brief note wishing us well.
One message catches my eye, though. It’s from someone named Waylon, no last name, no context. The email is brief but oddly specific:
Michael—I’ve been watching your progression, both on the ice and in the AI world. Impressive work on both fronts. I look forward to meeting you one day soon. Best of luck in St. Paul. — Waylon
I stare at it for a moment, trying to place the name. Nothing comes. Probably just another overexcited fan who somehow got my email address. I file it away and move on.
On campus, the energy is electric.
Everywhere I go, someone wants to stop me—for a photo, for an autograph, for a handshake and a “Go Blue.” The banners are everywhere, strung between buildings and hanging from windows. “FROZEN FOUR BOUND” and “TRIPLE CROWN” and “STEWART FOR HOBEY” plastered across every surface the Children of Yost can reach.
The team can’t walk ten feet without getting mobbed. Noley starts wearing sunglasses indoors just to avoid eye contact. Cason embraces it, posing for every photo as if he’s on a red carpet. Zonk signs autographs with a Sharpie he now carries in his back pocket at all times.
“This is insane,” Reilly mutters as we push through a crowd outside Angell Hall. “We haven’t even won anything yet.”
“We won our regional,” I remind him.
“That’s not the trophy they’re thinking about,” he says, nodding toward a banner that reads “NATIONAL CHAMPIONS 2011” with a question mark hastily added in marker.
He’s right. The expectation is palpable. The campus isn’t just excited, they’re certain. They’ve already written the ending in their heads, and now they’re just waiting for us to deliver it.
That night, Willow and Molly corner me in the condo while Asuka watches from the couch with quiet amusement.
“You should ask Coach Benson,” Willow says, her voice soft but insistent. “About flying with the Matsudas to St. Paul.”
“Your aunt and uncle are coming,” Molly adds, her green eyes bright. “And the girls. You should spend time with them before the game. Real time, not just a wave from the ice.”
I hesitate. The team travels together—that’s the rule. We fly together, we eat together, we prepare together. It’s part of the ritual.
But Molly’s right. Aunt Nancy and Uncle Aaron are flying in from Toronto with Mary and Ellen. The Matsudas arranged the whole thing. And the idea of spending even a few hours with them before the chaos of the Frozen Four hits ... it’s tempting.
“I’ll ask,” I say finally. “But if he says no, that’s the end of it.”
Coach Benson’s office at Yost is exactly as cluttered as always—whiteboards covered in diagrams, video monitors looping game film, decades of hockey memorabilia crowding every surface. He looks up as I knock on the open door.
“Stewart. What do you need?”
I explain the situation—the family coming in, the Matsuda charter, the desire to have a few hours with my aunt and uncle before the games begin. I keep it simple, factual, no emotional appeals.
Benson listens without interrupting; his expression is unreadable.
“You pay for everything,” he says finally. “Flight, hotel, meals. I don’t want any last-minute NCAA complications.”
“Done,” I say immediately.
“And when the team arrives, you’re at the team hotel by curfew. No exceptions.”
“Understood.”
He nods once, sharp and final. “Then go. Be with your family. But Michael—” He fixes me with that steel-blue stare. “When you step on that ice, everything else disappears. Family, friends, all of it. You understand?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Good. Now get out of my office. I’ve got film to review.”
I call Bill Dixon before I’m even out of the building. Within an hour, I’ve sent Kiyomi payment for the trip, and Bill sends a receipt to the NCAA coordinator at school showing I’ve covered all my travel costs: flight, hotel, meals, everything documented and transparent.
No complications. No questions. Just a 21-year-old college hockey player going to see his family before the biggest game of his life.
Two wins. That’s all that stands between us and everything.
The Collision of Worlds, April 6, 2011
I walk into the Matsuda suite at the Saint Paul Hotel, and the first thing I notice is the chandelier. It’s enormous, dripping with crystal, throwing soft light across a room that looks like it belongs in a European palace. The Saint Paul is the oldest luxury property in the city, built in 1910, and the Matsudas have claimed the Ordway Suite on the penthouse floor. Through the tall windows, I can see Rice Park below and the Cathedral of Saint Paul rising against the evening sky.
The second thing I notice is my Uncle Aaron holding a tumbler of Japanese whisky.
He’s laughing. Not the polite, guarded chuckle I’ve seen him use around strangers, but a full, genuine laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. My Aunt Nancy stands beside him, her hand resting on his arm, and she’s smiling too.
And then I see them.
“MIKEY!”
Ellen launches herself across the room like a blonde missile in pigtails. I drop to one knee just in time to catch her, and she slams into my chest with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I bury my face in her messy curls, breathing in the smell of baby shampoo and something that might be maple syrup.
“You made it,” I say, looking up at Nancy over Ellen’s head.
“Kiyomi sent a plane, Mikey,” Aaron raises his glass, an amiable smile under the grey-shot beard. “A private jet just for us. Hell of a thing.”
I glance across the room. Kiyomi stands by the bar in a tailored charcoal dress, watching the scene with satisfaction. She orchestrated this. Every detail. The timing, the logistics, the suite overlooking Rice Park with its direct skyway connection to the Xcel Energy Center. She made sure my family could move between here and the arena without dealing with street-level chaos or cameras.
Mary hangs back near the window, trying to look mature and unimpressed, but I catch her sneaking glances at the grand piano in the corner. She’s eight now, old enough to feel self-conscious about running across rooms, but young enough that her excitement still shows in the way she keeps shifting her weight from foot to foot.
“Hey, Mary,” I say, still holding Ellen. “You gonna come say hi, or what?”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s already walking toward me. “Hi, Mikey.”
I reach out and ruffle her hair with my free hand. She swats at me, but she’s grinning.
“Kiyomi-san,” Nancy says, crossing the room to take both of Kiyomi’s hands in hers. “I don’t know how to thank you. The flight, the hotel, all of this...”
“Please,” Kiyomi’s voice is warm but firm. “Michael’s family is our family. There is nothing to thank.”
Asuka appears at my elbow, pressing a cold water bottle into my hand. She moves so quietly I didn’t even see her approach. “They are wonderful,” she whispers, watching Ellen try to climb higher on my shoulder.
“We are family,” Hiroto corrects from across the room. He’s standing with Aaron, and I realize they’ve been talking. Hiroto raises his glass of whiskey. “And tonight, we celebrate.”
Aaron lifts his own glass in response. “I’ll drink to that.”
I watch them clink tumblers and marvel at my fortune. My uncle, the guy who works for my grandfather and has every reason to be suspicious of wealthy strangers, is sharing expensive Japanese whisky with a Matsuda executive. They’re laughing about something. I don’t even know what.
Ellen tugs at my ear. “Mikey, Mikey, look.” She points at the window. “There’s a park. Can we go to the park?”
“Maybe tomorrow, bug. It’s cold out there.”
“But I wanna go now.”
“Ellen.” Nancy’s voice carries the gentle warning of a mother who’s been traveling all day. “Let Mikey breathe.”
Ellen ignores her, which is pretty standard. She wraps her arms around my neck and settles in as if she’s planning to stay.
Mitsy bounces over, her energy filling the surrounding space. “Oh my god, she’s so cute. Ellen, right? I’m Mitsy.”
Ellen studies her with the serious intensity of a six-year-old evaluating a potential friend. “You have pretty hair.”
“Thank you! I like your pigtails.”
Ellen beams. Friendship established.
I find out later that Ryuichi and Takeshi have booked the private dining room downstairs for dinner. The whole family, both families, eating together before the second biggest game of my life.
After a few hours of catching up, everyone drifts toward their rooms to freshen up and get dressed for dinner.
As I head out, Kiyomi catches my eye across the room and gives me the smallest nod. She knew what she was doing when she sent that plane for my family.
The Banquet
We meet at the elevators on the suite level. The men wear their best suits, and the women wear a stunning mix of Western and Japanese dresses. I can barely tear my eyes away from Willow, Asuka, and Molly. Willow wears a sapphire-blue sheath that hugs her slender frame, the neckline dipping just enough to catch the light on her collarbone. Asuka’s dress is a daring black number with a plunging back that reveals the toned lines of her shoulders, the fabric clinging to her compact figure like a second skin. Molly’s emerald gown flows to the floor, the cut accentuating her statuesque height while her red hair spills over bare shoulders dusted with freckles. Each is gorgeous.
Ellen and Mary stand between their parents, looking as if they stepped out of a storybook. For once, Ellen’s blonde curls are brushed and held back by a white satin headband that matches her lace-trimmed dress. She clutches a tiny beaded purse that Nancy probably had to wrestle away from her three times already. Mary stands a little taller in a pale pink dress with a ribbon sash, her Barrows-blue eyes bright with excitement as she surveys the grown-ups in their finery. Both girls wear white patent-leather shoes that gleam under the hallway lights, and I catch Ellen sneaking glances at Molly’s gown like she’s memorizing every detail for later.
Kiyomi, Rika, and Mitsy have chosen traditional Japanese formal wear—elegant kimonos that transform the hotel corridor into something far more refined. Kiyomi wears a deep burgundy tomesode, the formal married woman’s kimono, with gold chrysanthemum embroidery cascading down the hem and sleeves. Rika has selected a slate gray houmongi with subtle silver threading that catches the light when she moves; the restrained color is perfectly suited to her personality. Mitsy stands out in a vibrant coral furisode, the long flowing sleeves that mark her as an unmarried woman shimmering with every gesture, the silk painted with delicate cherry blossoms that seem to dance under the hallway lights.
The elevator ride down is quiet, but our entrance into the lobby creates a stir. We move through the crowd as a single unit, a blend of high fashion and traditional elegance that turns heads at every corner. The concierge spots us immediately and guides us directly to the entrance of The St. Paul Grill, where the staff is waiting to usher us into the back.
The private room smells of old money, a rich mix of mahogany, leather, and dry-aged beef. The long table is set for twenty, and heavy crystal tumblers catch the light from the brass chandeliers overhead. As the group settles into their seats, I remain standing for a moment.
I am still wearing the medallion, heavy around my neck. It is the NCAA West Regional Championship medal and serves as tangible proof of the war we survived against North Dakota to punch our ticket here. In the hockey world, you do not hide your hardware. You wear it as a statement that you belong at the big table. Tonight, it serves as a bridge between my rural roots and the Matsudas’ empire. It is a universal symbol of victory that needs no translation. It tells them I did not just get invited to St. Paul. I kicked down the door to get here.
Hiroto notices the gold glinting against my tie and stands up immediately. He is not holding a sake cup tonight. Instead, he is holding a glass of amber liquid.
“The Champion!” Hiroto announces, raising his glass high. “Single malt. Eighteen years. For the number five.”
The room erupts in cheers.
I look down the table as I take my seat. It is a surreal and beautiful mosaic.
At one end, my Uncle Aaron is deep in conversation with Takeshi. He’s running through the operational side of a recent manufacturing supply contract, hand resting easy on the stem of his glass. Takeshi listens with the focused attention he reserves for serious counterparts, asking the occasional sharp question. When the room quiets, I catch a fragment of Aaron’s voice.
“ ... the Japanese mills want clear vertical grain, no knots above twenty centimeters, and they pay a premium if we can guarantee moisture content within two percent. Most North American mills can’t hit that spec consistently. We can.”
Takeshi nods slowly. “Discipline at the source. The buyers in Osaka would respect this approach.”
“They do. We’ve been shipping to two of them for eleven years now.”
A few minutes later they drift into shared ground, hunting up north when Aaron was younger, fly-fishing on the lakes where he grew up. Aaron tells the stories cleanly, the way a man recounts anecdotes about a life he visits now rather than lives in. Takeshi finds points of connection in his own family experience in Hokkaido.
Aunt Nancy is showing Kiyomi a picture on her digital camera, and for the first time, I see Kiyomi laugh. It is a real and unguarded sound that stops me cold for a second. I have known Kiyomi for years now, and I can count on one hand the times I have seen her guard drop like that.
“That is Ellen wearing Michael’s jersey,” Nancy says, tilting the screen. “She refuses to take it off. Sleeps in it. The sleeves drag on the floor.”
Kiyomi covers her mouth, still laughing. “She looks like she is swimming.”
“She is swimming. That child would live inside that jersey if we let her.”
Mary and Ellen are teaching Asuka a hand-clapping game, and their giggles bounce off the dark wood paneling. Asuka’s movements are precise, perhaps too precise, but she is smiling. Ellen keeps grabbing her hands to correct her timing.
“No, no, you’ve gotta go faster!” Ellen insists.
“I am going faster.”
“Faster than that!”
Willow and Molly are sitting with Mrs. Matsuda, looking every bit the part of the WAGs they have become. They are glowing with victory. Molly catches my eye and raises her glass with a wink. Willow just smiles a soft and private smile that says she knows exactly how much this moment means.
A waiter places a steak in front of me. It is perfectly seared and still sizzling.
Ryuichi leans over from my left. “Your uncle and my father have found common ground on manufacturing economics. He’s been walking my father through the export pricing structure.”
“Is he giving away company secrets?”
“He’s discussing market conditions. My father has been buying Canadian softwood through intermediaries for two decades. They have surprising overlap in their supply chains.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Small world.”
“Smaller than you’d think.”
Hiroto raises his glass again, and the room quiets once more.
“To family,” he says. “To the ones we choose. And the ones who choose us.”
Aaron echoes it without hesitation, clinking his glass against Hiroto’s. “To family.”
The sound ripples down the table as crystal meets crystal. Nancy and Kiyomi. Willow and Molly. Even Takeshi, who rarely drinks, lifts his tumbler in acknowledgment.
I take a sip. The scotch burns, warm and rich. I allow myself this one indulgence tonight—normally I would stick with my beloved Diet Coke, but tonight is different. Tonight is for honoring family.
Mitsy slides into the empty chair beside me. “You know what I love about this?”
“What is that?”
“Three months ago, if you had told me your aunt from Toronto would be showing my sister-in-law baby pictures while my grandfather discussed hunting with your uncle, I would have called you insane.”
I look down the table again. Aaron is now drawing something on a napkin with his finger, probably a diagram of moose anatomy knowing him, and Takeshi is studying it as if it is a business proposal.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is something.”
“It is everything, Michael,” Mitsy’s voice drops, serious for once. Her eyes hold mine, and I see something there, a weight that goes back further than tonight. “You saved me twice. At the arena parking lot, and then again at the restaurant.” She pauses, and I watch her swallow. “Those moments changed everything. Not just for me. For all of us.” She gestures down the table, where her grandfather is still leaning into the conversation with Aaron. “This is what came from that. The dinners, the stupid hand-clapping games, the arguments about how to cook a steak. You and I, we are brother and sister now, Michael. And this,” she looks at the room full of people who should never have met, who are now sharing stories and laughter like they have known each other for years, “this is our family.”
Ellen’s voice cuts through the room. “Mikey! Mikey, watch! I taught Asuka the whole thing!”
Mitsy and I turn to look. Ellen is beaming with her pigtails askew, her hands already moving through the pattern. Asuka follows along, and this time her timing is perfect.
“That is amazing, Ellen.”
“I know!”
The table laughs. Even Takeshi.
I take another sip of scotch. It tastes like victory. It tastes like home.
The Semifinal, April 7, 2011
The Xcel Energy Center is a different animal than The Joe or Scottrade. It doesn’t have the industrial grit of Detroit or the vertical intimidation of St. Louis. This place is the “State of Hockey,” clean lines, steep sightlines, and acoustics designed to amplify the roar of eighteen thousand people until it feels like the roof is caving in. The crowd is mostly Minnesota locals, neutral on paper, but Big Ten loyalty runs deep here. They’ll cheer for the Wolverines tonight against Boston College, then turn on us in the final if we get there.
We are circling for warmups, the ice beneath my skates feeling hard and fast, when I look up to the suite level.
I stop gliding. I actually stop moving, letting the puck drift off my stick, because the sight stops my breath in my throat.
The Matsudas didn’t just rent the box; they conquered it.
Just like in St. Louis, the heavy-gauge, deep navy silk tapestries are draped precisely over the glass railing, cutting through pockets of Boston College maroon and gold like a blade. The silver Michigan “M” and the Matsuda Industrial Group crest shimmer under the broadcast lights, flanking a bold, stylized #5. It’s refined, commanding, and impossible to ignore.
But it’s the people inside that make me smile.
The “collision of worlds” I’ve been navigating for a year has finally become a unified front. Standing right at the glass is my Uncle Aaron. He’s wearing a crisp white #5 jersey over a charcoal henley, looking every bit the Toronto executive he is. Aunt Nancy is beside him, her hand on the glass, beaming down at me with a smile that breaks my heart in the best way.
And the girls—Mary and Ellen. Little Ellen is practically swimming in a jersey that goes down to her knees, bouncing up and down on the furniture while Asuka gently steers her away from the edge.
The Matsudas, Willow, Molly, and Asuka are all lined up in their identical white jerseys, creating a “White Out” strip that anchors the Michigan section. Takeshi stands with his arms crossed, nodding slowly as our eyes meet. Uncle Aaron gives me a thumbs-up, comfortable in the luxury and fiercely proud.
It’s a flag planted in hostile soil. A declaration that the Stewart-Matsuda alliance isn’t just business. It’s family.
“Stew! Heads up!” Noley barks, snapping a pass that hits my tape and jolts me back to the ice.
“I see ‘em,” I say, catching the puck.
“The Toronto delegation has arrived.” Noley grins through his cage as he skates past. “They cleaned up nice.”
“They always do,” I say, and I mean it.
The puck drops, and the sentimentality vanishes instantly.
Boston College is the defending national champion for a reason. They are fast, Ferrari fast. They don’t skate; they flow. From the opening faceoff, they try to skate us off our feet, their transition game lethal and precise. They move the puck East-West, stretching our defense, looking for the seam, playing with an arrogance that only winners possess.
“Gap control! Tighten up!” Coach Benson screams from the bench, his voice cutting through the noise.
We absorb the blow. We don’t try to match their flash. We rely on the structure Coach drilled into us until we hated him for it. We clog the neutral zone, turning their speed into frustration. We force them to dump and chase—a game they don’t want to play. We make them grind.
The first period ends 0–0, but it feels like we survived a hurricane.
In the second, the cracks start to show. Not in us, but in them. They’re getting frustrated. They’re taking chances.
I collect the puck at the point on a power play. I walk the blue line, dragging their penalty killer with me, opening up the lane. I don’t blast it. I snap a low, hard shot toward the traffic.
Cason is parked in the paint, an immovable object in front of their goalie. He doesn’t try to control it. He just gets his blade on the ice.
Clack.
The tip is subtle, surgical. The puck changes direction, fluttering over the goalie’s pad and into the mesh.
The horn sounds. 1–0 Michigan.
The third period is a sustained assault on our zone. Boston College throws everything at us, abandoning defense entirely, sending four men on the forecheck, desperate to equalize.
Halfway through the period, the dam cracks. A point shot finds its way through a screen, ticking off a stick on the way through. Josh never sees it. The red light flashes. 1–1.
The bench reels for a heartbeat, then resets. We are back to grinding.
Cason answers four minutes later. He drives to the net hard, takes a feed from Noley off the half-wall, and roofs it short side. 2–1 Michigan.
We take a penalty with six minutes left. A slash. A bad one.
“Kill it off!” Benson roars.
I’m on the ice. I’m in the zone. The arena fades. There is only the passing lanes.
Their defenseman winds up for a one-timer. I see the lane. I see the net behind me.
Safe is death.
I drop to one knee. I engage the core and turn my chest into a wall.
THUD.
The puck slams into my chest protector. The “bone-deep vibration” rattles me, but I don’t flinch. I scramble up. They cycle the puck. Another shot. I slide across, stacking the pads like a goalie. It hits my shin guard with a plastic clatter.
“Clear it!” Josh screams from the net.