The final game of the road trip started like a punishment and ended like a stay of execution.
We were down by two after the first period. The building was loud in the way only opposing barns got loud—every hit cheered, every missed call a personal insult, every one of our passes greeted with the kind of sustained booing that made the boards vibrate. Coach looked like he was calculating the fastest route to early retirement. Miller had already broken a stick and tried to argue with the referee using interpretive gestures. Damian had won six of seven face-offs and looked personally offended by the seventh.
I played like the ice owed me money.
Every shift was a negotiation with gravity and bad decisions. I took a high stick in the second that the officials missed and answered it with a cle
