Rick slid into the center circle, whacked down his stick and the first period began. “Kick ass, Ramrod,” shouted one of the men behind me.
Skates whizzed over the ice. The puck shot backward and forward. I kept my gaze on Rick and he was quick to take the puck from the opposition. Next thing he was speeding down the wing nearest our seats. I saw his fierce, determined gaze home in on the net.
Out of nowhere, a huge player with his beard protruding from his helmet cage appeared and body-checked Rick into the boards. Curses peppered the air behind me. The Plexiglas shook and rattled so violently I felt sure it would break and Rick would end up in the crowd. But Rick didn’t even fall down, he simply elbowed his way back out to center ice, the puck still under his stick.
“Go, Rick,” I shouted, waving my hands.
“Go, Ramrod,” yelled one of the teenagers in front of me. “Don’t let him get the better of you. Show ’em what you’re made of.”
Another Islander player went for Rick. Again the collision was car-wreck brutal but still not enough to topple him over. Swiftly he passed the puck to Raven who sent it on to Phoenix. The crowd went crazy. Phoenix shot around two defenders as if they were amateur skaters and in a move so quick, so precise it was like a bolt of lightning, he sent the puck to the back of the net.
I jumped up cheering, and so did several thousand others. The giant screen zoomed in on Phoenix’s delighted face as all the team bumped gloves or patted him on the helmet. The Islanders spat on the ice, shook their heads and moped back to position.
By the end of the first period, the Vipers were one goal up and I knew I’d never watched such a fast, exciting game of hockey as this one. In the second period, Brick paid a visit to the penalty box and Raven missed a penalty shot. Carly and I ate nachos and swigged a beer, kindly fetched by yet another security man.
The Islanders scored within ten seconds of the third period. I watched Rick doling out instructions to his defenders, pointing at the ice with his stick then shooting back up to center ice and skidding to a halt amidst a spray of ice chips. I crossed my fingers and toes that the Vipers would win. I was keen to experience the celebratory sex that would accompany success.
Carly nudged me and pointed at Rick. He was tussling with an Islander, his stick fighting for the puck. The other guy started to get away and with a gasp I watched Rick hook his stick into the Islander’s skates. The Islander instantly went flying and landed sprawled on the ice, all four limbs akimbo and his stick skittering away from him.
The referee charged up to Rick pointing and shouting. Rick dragged off his helmet and shrugged. He placed a gloved hand on his chest and feigned such an expression of innocence that I wondered if perhaps he would get away with it.
“Fair hit, ref,” shouted the gang behind me. “Not Ramrod’s fault if number nine can’t skate.”
The referee was having none of it. Rick was sent to the penalty box for two minutes and the Islanders were on a power play.
They scored.
“Lucky shot!” was shouted from the stands around me. “Fluke!”
Rick was back on the ice, his face more steely and determined than I’d ever seen it.
“Five minutes left,” Carly said, leaning over to me.
Tension electrified the air and I practically sizzled with anticipation. The Vipers needed to score; one to make it even and send it to overtime, two to win.
Phoenix survived a ruthless hit and made it down the wing, puck neatly trapped within the curve of his stick. Before I even had time to catch what was happening, he drove the puck home and scored, bringing the Vipers level with the Islanders.
“You show ’em,” shouted one of the men behind me. The teenagers in front of me jumped up and down and high-fived one another. Phoenix was slapped so hard on the back by Rick and Raven at the same time that he almost lost his balance.
Play resumed and almost immediately Brick got hold of the puck and passed it to Raven who sliced it to Rick. He caught it and barreled down the ice, head down, stick to the ground. My mind was spinning, my heart racing. I was too excited to shout or move. He was gaining on the goal. I saw him glance up, as if visualizing his next move.
He took a shot.
He scored.
The crowd went ballistic. It was as if an explosion of excitement had detonated in the arena. Carly jumped up and hugged me, the players hugged one another.
The final buzzer rang.
“They won,” I shouted over the din.
“Yeah, come on, let’s go down to the tunnel,” Carly shouted, her face aglow with jubilation.
Our two security men immediately stood, their eyes watchful and their shoulders squared.
Carly took no notice of them. “The atmosphere will be awesome down there,” she said, grabbing her purse. “Beating the Islanders in the last minute will have the guys on such a high.”