Power Play

Power Play By J.M. Snyder power play, n: a situation in ice hockey in which one team has a temporary… advantage because the other team has one or more players in the penalty box. From: The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition For the Sun God. And the Little Prince. Chapter 1 Clear ice all the way to the goal, perfect. Matt Jacoby on the outside if he needs to go wide, but Ryan Talonovich doesn’t think it’ll come to that. He has a feel for the game that the others seem to lack, it’s in his blood, he breathes and lives hockey and he knows a sure shot when he sees one. This is just practice, one of the last times they can get together before their first game of the spring semester, but he makes it count. He makes them all count. Five men in his path, his teammates, his friends. He skates a tight line, keeps the puck close to his stick, watches the guys that hem him in on either side. Jacoby signals for a pass but Ryan doesn’t want the help—this is his shot, his goal. He feels the bite of chill air on his cheeks, wind like cold fingers brushing through his short-cropped hair. No helmet—he lost it somewhere along the way and hasn’t stopped to put it back on yet. No pads—this is practice, only long bottoms and shorts taped in place. It’s just him and the ice and the puck, the way hockey was meant to be played. The goalie hunkers down in the crease, waiting for the shot. One of the guys behind him comes up fast, tries for the puck, but Ryan blocks his stick and sends him on his way with an elbow to the stomach. He’s coming in fast, too fast his coach would say, but that’s the way Ryan is, it’s like playing chicken with the goalie, it intimidates his opponent and always gets him the goal. Always. He pulls back, hits the puck, gives it that signature spin he has that sends it spiraling above the goalie’s head and into the net. Score! He hears his teammates cheer and imagines the stands filled with a crowd calling out his nickname, Talon! Talon! He imagines there are scouts in the crowd, minor leaguers or someone from the Devils maybe, or someone great like Gretzky. It’s his dream, he can play it out however he wants. Only it’s not a dream, it’s a memory, and the next part always plays out in slow motion. He’s seen it hundreds of times, thousands, every night since it happened. He sees himself as if he’s in the stands now, he sees his own name on the back of his jersey, he sees the ice spray around his skates as he starts to skid to a stop. He sees the guy he elbowed, a big kid named Ashlin that Ryan never did quite like, he’s as graceless as a truck on skates and he’s barreling down on him now, trying to stop the goal two seconds too late. And the ice has begun to melt a bit, they’ve been practicing for over an hour nonstop and water’s begun to pool in spots, they’ll have to crank up the refrigeration unit when they’re finished to get it up to par again. And Ashlin’s going too damn fast on the slush to be safe. Ryan sees his teammate go down, hard. He feels the ice shudder beneath his feet as Ashlin strikes the surface, he’s that close. Ryan starts to turn, still sliding towards the crease, two other teammates already skating to help the big oaf back onto his feet. But Ashlin’s going too fast and when he hits the ice, it doesn’t slow his momentum one bit. He rolls onto his back, coming at Ryan skates first, disbelief and surprise written across his face. Talon! someone cries. In these dreams, Ryan thinks it might be his coach, but he’s not sure. Ashlin’s skates dig into Ryan’s long bottoms, slicing the tape and fabric away. The blades scrape into his skin but he can’t feel them, they’re too sharp. He’s thrown back against the net and the post unhinges beneath him, falls away. Then Ashlin’s right up on him and Ryan hears the crunch of bone as he’s driven into the boards. His head cracks against the ice, his hair grows damp, he sees the red light above the box spin with another goal, even though this is the practice rink and there are no buzzers here, no flashing lights. He sees them anyway. It’s his dream, he can play it however he wants. Score! he thinks. It’s his last coherent thought on the ice.