Silver Stick Alvinston [patched] Official

In Alvinston, they don't remember the scores. They remember the sound of a small town holding its breath—and then letting it go all at once.

Goalie slid right. Sam held. Dragged. Roofed it glove side. silver stick alvinston

On the bench, a boy named Sam pulled his cage over his eyes. His dad had driven him here before sunrise for practice. His mom had sewn the "A" onto his jersey herself. The rink was cold enough to see your breath, but inside his chest, everything was burning. In Alvinston, they don't remember the scores

He took the pass on his backhand. Cut left. A defenceman lunged. Sam stepped around him like he was a pylon. but inside his chest

"Flames goal, number nine," the announcer's voice crackled. An assist.

The Last Shift in Alvinston