Alvinston — Silver Stick

Sam's dad was crying in the stands. The silver stick, waiting on a folding table by the timekeeper's box, caught the overhead light and threw it back like a promise kept.

Sam hopped the boards. His blades bit into the ice. He didn't hear the coach yelling. He didn't hear his name. He just saw the silver stick painted on centre ice—the logo of a tournament that had started decades ago in a nearby farmhouse kitchen. silver stick alvinston

"Flames goal, number nine," the announcer's voice crackled. An assist. Sam's dad was crying in the stands