They Call Me Evan

Foul

Later that night, I'm back in the locker room. We're getting dressed for a game we have to play against the Jr. Black Hawks or something like that. They came all the way from America to play against us. Just some high school kids looking for something to do.
As I step onto the ice, I look up in the stands. My best friend, Rose, is in the very front row. She stood up when she saw me, her long brown hair swaying from the movement. "Go Evan!," she says. "Show these Americans who's the boss of the ice rink!" I smile and nod at her. Sitting next to her is my other friend, Jax. Jax smiles and gives me a thumbs up.
I groan as Derek goes up front and taps off. All my life I've wanted to do that, but the coaches won't let me. They won't tell me why, but I suspect it has something to do with this "pure Canadian" crap Derek's spreading about me. Here's something even crazier, Derek has an enormous crush on Rose, and she's 75% American! I mean come on!
I almost don't notice the puck flying towards me, but luckily I catch it just in time and flick it away, sending it skidding in the other direction. I fly down the ice after the puck, hitting it with my hockey stick to keep it going. As soon as I'm close enough to the goal, I hit the puck full force. It skies into the goal with so much strength it knocks the goalies stick out of the way and strikes the net. I smile. First goal of the night. Pure Canadian or not, nothing's going to keep me from bringing my A-game to this rink.
Looking over, I see Derek and Johnson casting me dirty looks. When they see me looking, they glare even harder. I sigh and shake my head, then take off across the ice. Over a period of twenty minutes, I score three more goals. I concentrate in on what the crowd is saying, and I'm shocked at what I hear. All around me, my last name blares throughout the rink.
"Fong! Fong! Fong!," the crowd chants. I smile briefly, then jet out across the rink. Five more minutes pass. I score another goal. Suddenly, I feel something slam into me. I fall, face first, into the ice. Looking up, I see Johnson glaring down at me.
"Stay out of Derek's way," he snarls quietly before heading to the Penalty Box after the Ref begins to lecture him.
All I hear as I close my eyes is, "penalty on Johnson Davis. Number 19."
"Foul," I say quietly. Then it all fades to black.