“You better stay down, Terry.”
Pilote cuts lazily through the crease, speaking
to the crumpled goalie at his feet.
Sawchuk was down, face flat on the anaesthetic ice.
So here was the luxury of disaster, the dreamy letting go
the thousand things. Let someone else look after
everything now. Slide and glide for him.
He knew exactly what was on the way when Hull got room
to let one fly. His choices were few: come out and cut down the angle
or go take that job with his father-in-law. A hundred and twenty
miles an hour, he takes one full force on his shoulder.
The crack of bone like a roof beam giving way.
He hears familiar voices kneeling close. “Man, oh man.
He hits the ice like he’s been shot.” “Those useless goddamn
shoulder pads, how many times do I tell him that?”
He hears the mocking serenade begin again.
What does he care about the crowd? He’s heard it all before.
In this world, though, the softly spoken words are the hardest
to swallow. You better stay down, Terry. And Terry hears
his own guys at the net. “You hear that little prick?”
“And skating through the crease like that.” Stemkowski
says nothing, watching Pilote skate slowly back to his bench.
So, Pilote was the one who fanned the flame.
By the time he stepped off the ice, he was having second
thoughts himself. You’d have said Terry was done the way
he went down. But you don’t need to look around now
to know who’s on his feet. The singing fades away.
Billy’s peering at him down the bench, tapping
his head beneath his hat—“Wake the fuck up.”
Pilote takes a swig of water and spits it out.
Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. And hadn’t he felt those eyes
on him all the way back to the bench. Bloody Stemkowski.
The corners were going to get interesting too.