A trail of powder snow followed my skates as I glided across the ice. Two defenders stood between me and the net, where the goaltender represented a final obstacle.
Taking on three opposing players wasn't an easy task for most hockey players, but I definitely wasn't most hockey players. As the top scorer of the Oakcrest High Chargers, I had plenty of experience in these scenarios. Each attempt played out differently, but the result was the same: a goal for Caleb Dawson.
The defenders continued to backpedal as I advanced. At the blue line, the defenders finally realized that skating backwards only opened up more space for me. One of them stepped forward and tried to take me out with a powerful but clumsy hit. The other defender, expecting contact, stopped to watch the hit unfold.
To both players' surprise, I made a quick little sidestep move and easily avoided the first defender. A few quick strides and I breezed by the other flatfooted defender.
Two down, one to go.
The crowd rose to their feet and the noise level grew as I stormed in on the goaltender. Everyone was anticipating a show. With plenty of tricks up my sleeves, I never disappointed my fans.
A head fake forced the goaltender to freeze momentarily, expecting a shot that never came. This was my bread and butter move. It was a simple trick, but it was also a simply effective trick.
I continued to handle the puck, but purposely left it dangling on the end of my stick. To the goaltender, whose timing and focus was thrown off by the fake shot, it must have seemed like I was losing control. Without thinking of the consequences, he lunged out and tried to poke the puck away.
Rookie mistake.
With practiced precision, I pulled the puck back like a yo-yo on a string and away from the goaltender. He made one last effort to trip me with his skates, but it didn't connect. Twenty four square feet of open net now became fully visible to me.
Before I put the puck where it belonged, I glanced over my shoulder at the goaltender. Most of his face was hidden behind the protective mask, but nothing could hide the desperation and helplessness in his eyes.
I finished the job by lofting the puck into the net. It bounced off the underside of the crossbar and fell straight down, just past the red line for a goal. Bar down beauty.
The goaltender got up and brushed the snow off his jersey. "I'll get you next time, Dawson!"
No, you won't.
I glided around the net and joined my teammates in a celebratory huddle. The crowd cheered approvingly and I heard a few fans chant my name. This only further annoyed the goaltender, who grunted in frustration as he got the rubber out of his net.
As we skated back towards the bench, the goaltender suddenly made eye contact with me and I took this opportunity to rub some salt into his wounds. With the chant picking up volume around the arena, I put a glove to my ear and leaned in towards him.
"You hear that? Caleb. Caleb. Caleb." The goaltender turned away and ignored me. "You don't hear it? That's fine. You'll be hearing plenty more of this later today."
That caused him to snap and utter a long string of curse words. I took that as my cue to leave. Mission accomplished.
At the bench, the rest of my team began to congratulate me on the goal. I saw moving mouths, but I couldn't hear a single word. The arena was buzzing with excitement and individual voices became inaudible noises. It was difficult to separate my supporting cast from my supporters.
When play started up again, Coach Stone strolled over to my spot on the bench. He gave me a quick pat on the helmet. I looked up and was greeted by his usual deadpan expression. Coach definitely lived up to his last name. Stone cold as always.
"Nice goal, Caleb, but no more showboating." A side of criticism for that compliment.
"Yes, sir!" I topped it off with a standard military salute.
Not a chance.
When it came to hockey, Coach Stone and I were two different people with two different visions. Coach was old school and stressed playing as a unit. Nothing wrong with that. His style produced steady offense and sound defense. The only issue was that we played hockey and not chess. Spectators came for the action.
That was where I came in. I provided the action that brought fans to their feet, cheering in excitement. When my skates hit the ice, I became both hockey player and entertainer. The crowd wanted to see pucks in the net, and I scored consistently to keep them happy.
Coach didn't agree with my views on the sport, and neither did I agree with his, but we still made things work. It was a case of mutual respect. I respected Coach's expertise and leadership, and Coach respected my offensive abilities. Our relationship wasn't pretty, but it sure was effective.
A few minutes later, Coach Stone proved my point by sending me back on the ice for another shift. The score was even at two and five minutes remained on the clock. Of course Coach sent his best player on the ice.
I jumped on to the ice and my linemates followed suit. As soon as the skate blades touched the surface of the ice, my game instincts took over. Years of practice made this process nearly automatic. My eyes scanned the width of the ice to track down the puck. In a fraction of a second, I spotted my prize on the stick of their defender.
Before I reached him, the defender wisely passed the puck off to a winger. I shifted targets and hunted the new prey down. His inexperience was painfully obvious. Aside from a short and skinny frame that screamed freshman, the way he skated with his head down raised all sorts of alarm bells.
One of the first things that coaches taught at a young age was skating with our heads up. There was a specific reason why. As a senior and veteran in the league, it was my duty to remind Skimpy why.
I pumped my arms like a sprinter and extended my strides for maximum speed. With momentum, I dashed in a straight line towards Skimpy. The skate blades scratched the surface of the ice, its crisp sound echoing around the arena. Opportunities like these excited me. Besides goals, I had other methods of exciting the crowd.
From a fan's point of view, I was probably a blur. At this speed, both my name and number were probably unreadable. All anyone could see were flashes of green and yellow, like a Jamaican sprinter but on ice.
Even for me, everything was out of focus. Everything except Skimpy and the puck on his stick. My focus turned into tunnel vision and it helped me stay on track. Nothing could distract me from my target.
I chased Skimpy down the length of the ice. He didn't pay me much attention, with his focus on keeping puck control. That being said, Skimpy did realize I was approaching, and he slowly drifted towards the boards.
Even better.
I stopped skating about three strides away, but my momentum allowed me to barrel into Skimpy. Just before I made contact, the freckly little kid looked up for the first time. His wide eye expression carved its way into my memory. Deer in the headlights was an understatement; cricket in the path of a tank was a better comparison. Skimpy knew he was about to get crushed.
I threw all one hundred and eighty pounds into the hit and it resulted in a massive collision. Within seconds, Skimpy went from rookie hockey player to human scotch tape. His body was completely flattened against the glass. The distinct popping sound of air leaving Skimpy's lungs played like a beat in my head as I skated away.
As Skimpy fell down like a sack of potatoes, I picked up the loose puck and took off for their net. I could hear angry hollering coming from the opposing bench. Their coach was furious. He stood up on their bench and demanded a penalty.
Fat chance.
In all honesty, my hit on Skimpy was absolutely clean. Massive, violent, but one hundred percent by the rules. No headshot or elbows. That hit was a thing of beauty.
Their coach continued to holler, until the referees skated by the benches and ignored his words. That caused him to deflate faster than Skimpy. Our fans clapped and cheered as their coach returned behind the bench, quietly fuming to himself.
Just like the last chance, I skated through the neutral zone with two defenders back. This was encore time.
Learning from their previous mistake, the defenders skated closer together, sealing off the gap between them. Smart play by these two guys. Adjusting on the go was an important skill for any athlete. However, my adjustment skill was stronger than theirs.
I crossed the blue line and the goaltender skated out to cover his angles. The two defenders continued to skate backwards and formed a three person wall.
Feeling a false sense of safety, the goaltender slapped his stick against his pads and hollered out to me, "Bring it on, Dawson. You're not getting past me this time."
A smile almost crossed my face. This guy was way over his head. He was probably still upset about that last goal. That was good news. An angry hockey player only made bad decisions.
I brought both arms backward, stick pointing to the ceiling in a classic slapshot position. This wasn't usually my kind of shot - I preferred finesse over power - but I had a point to make. With one last stride, I leaned forward and put every last ounce of power into my stick.
The puck whizzed off the stick and zinged towards the goaltender. It turned into a blur, momentarily invisible as it blended in with the color of the goaltender's pads. The two defenders took a step towards the puck as though to block it, but fear got them and they let the puck fly past them. It was hard to blame them. The puck traveled high and fast. A mistimed block could break bones.
While his defenders flinched, the goaltender set up and prepared for the shot. Despite the high speed, the goaltender remained calm, tracking the puck with his eyes. As it arrived, he reached out with his glove to snag the puck.
And the red lights flashed behind him to indicate a goal.
A close effort, but his glove just missed the puck and it traveled into the top corner, sending his water bottle over the net and into the glass. The goaltender turned around, and was shocked to find my heat seeking missile buried deep in the twine.
I skated by the goaltender and reminded him about his earlier statement. "That was your next time. Still didn't stop me. Zero for two. You're a pretty bad goaltender. I've seen coupons that save more than you."
The goaltender didn't respond. I didn't expect him. But neither did I expect him to fling off his gloves and punch me in the jaw.
Two more punches landed on my face as I took my own gloves off. I wasn't the biggest player on the ice, but I could hold my own in a fight. Two quick hooks caught his cheekbones and we were even at two punches each.
We traded punches but the count slowly shifted in the goaltender's favor. My disadvantage lay in the facts that the goaltender was a few inches taller with a longer reach, and his thick layer of goaltender equipment kept me at bay. With all these disadvantages, things didn't look good for me.
My odds of winning were slim, but slim didn't mean none. If there was one thing people should know about me, it was the fact that I was super competitive. Winning outweighed everything, even my own wellbeing.
I grabbed the goaltender's jersey and pulled him towards me. With barely any space between us, punch speed became more important and my short, quick shots turned into an advantage. I took a few hard punches, but overall, I landed more punches after this adjustment.
Finally, a quick uppercut landed heavily against the goaltender's jaw and it sent him to the ice. The referees immediately jumped in to prevent me from dishing out any additional punches, but I didn't feel the need to do so. Victory was already mine.
"Zero for three," I reminded the goaltender, who remained face down against the ice.
One of the referee grabbed me by the arm and guided me back to the bench. He was usually one of the friendlier officials on duty, but tonight, his expression was anything but friendly. "You're done for tonight, Dawson."
League rules banned any sort of fighting. For this scrap, I was ejected for the rest of the game, and also suspended for the next one. At least I scored twice tonight. That would keep my goal per game pace going.
Along the way, I skated past the opposing bench and most of their players got up to taunt me. These guys hated me with a passion. I guess it came with being a star. Talent attracted jealousy.
This was my fourth season in the league, and things like this no longer bothered me. Nothing they said could change the fact that my team was winning. I leaned into their bench and put a hand on my ear.
"Louder," I taunted, pointing to the crowd with my stick. "I can't hear you over the sound of my fans."
The referee yanked on my arm and pulled me away from the angry bench. "None of that, Dawson."
We returned to my bench, and Curtis the backup goaltender opened the gate for me. My teammates nodded in appreciation. Two of our three goals were mine, and although my night ended early, it was a well deserved break.
Looking further down the bench, I noticed that Coach Stone was shaking his head in disappointment. That annoyed me to no end. Thanks to my efforts, the team was winning. Yet he still didn't support me.
I knew that there was a large difference between being on the ice and being behind the bench, but I wished Coach Stone could see things from my point of view. I was the victim of a sucker punch. The fight was about defending myself, and there wasn't anything wrong about that.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. I stormed down the long, dark corridor that led to the locker room. Before I reached the door, I slammed my stick against the wall in frustration. A loud bang rang out and the shaft split into two pieces on impact. The blade slid across the length of the corridor and buried itself underneath a garbage can.
Next up: my helmet. I yanked it off my head and launched it as far as possible. The helmet bounced off the far end of the corridor, making a hollow popping sound as it hit the wall.
Coach Stone and my teammates could probably hear my outburst, but that wasn't my concern. Once I was off the ice, I owed the team nothing.
After I took my anger out on the equipment, I began to calm down and thought about my current situation. Since I was out of the game, I should take advantage of the free time. There were better things to do than throw equipment around for the rest of the game.
With a few minutes left in the game, I figured that I had enough time to take a nice, hot shower. At least the ejection guaranteed me hot water, something that wasn't always possible when twenty other guys were using the showers.
The shower proved to be effective, as the hot steam cleared my mind from the issue. I realized that my focus was misplaced. At the end of the year, I was entering the professional draft and one of the best hockey teams in the world was going to sign me. Multi-million contracts, billboard advertisements, private planes. I would have both money and fame. Who cared what a middle aged, high school hockey coach thought about me?
I changed into my street clothes - a plain white tee and jeans - and went over to the mirrors. With a pinch of paste, I fixed my hair into messy locks. Clean, but a little unruly. Girls went crazy for that bad boy look.
Anyone else would have stayed in the locker room. Coach Stone kept a team policy that everyone stayed until the end of each game. Something about promoting team unity.
Too bad I didn't do team policies.