It just may have been the most amazing public team castration to have ever taken place on ice.
With only six and a half minutes left in regulation play, the Islanders were trailing 2-5 against the Red Wings and things were looking awfully grim for our boys in blue and orange until the Hockey Gods decided to send them an angel in the guise of Detroit forward Tyler Bertuzzi, who slashed Cal Clutterbuck across the knees with his stick and gifted New York with a three-minute power play.
Those three minutes turned out to be Detroit’s biggest nightmare. Ever. Why? ‘Cause Brock Nelson, Anders Lee, Nick Leddy and Josh Bailey all scored goals to go ahead 6-5.
Of course, Detroit tied it 6-6 right after the power play ended, but who the fuck cares when Mathew Barzal clocked his fifth assist of the night with another beautiful pass to Brock Nelson, who racked up his second hat trick and gave the Islanders the win in OT.
Goddamn if that didn’t deserve a steak dinner and some post-game celebration. After tucking into some well-earned aged porterhouse at Peter Luger, captain John Tavares gathered his boys together and headed back to Barclays Center.
“Whip it out, gentlemen,” Tavares intoned with the religious solemnity of the Pope. “It’s time to show our gratitude to the Gods of Hockey.”
The men stood in a circle at center ice and did as they were told because, shit, they were dudes and pumped from consuming vast quantities of perfectly seared red meat and, more importantly, the mind-blowing win against Detroit.
Tavares nodding approvingly at Barzal. “You go first, rookie.”
Barzal turned fifty shades of red. “Aw, shucks, captain.”
Jordan Eberle, who played on the same line as Barzal and had scored a goal himself, elbowed him with a smirk. “C’mon, baby face. Three minutes is all it takes for you.”
With a shy grunt, Barzal gripped his cock and began pumping steadily, eyes cast demurely on the Islanders logo visible beneath the ice. Eberle, who was standing next to him, stared at the Apple Watch on his wrist. Sure enough, within three minutes Barzal was panting and then groaning with each stroke.
“F-Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he swore through gritted teeth and then spilled in sloppy fashion in five different directions.
“Well done,” rumbled Tavares’ deep voice. “Alrighty, then.” He cast his eyes around the circle of men, his gaze coming to rest on Cal Clutterbuck. “Okay, Clusterfuck, you’re next.”
“For shit’s sake, JT! I dunno. My knees are killing me,” whined the right winger.
Brock Nelson punched him on the shoulder. “Jesus Christ, Cal, were you trying to win an Oscar for that performance?” All the men roared with laughter as they recalled the earlier scene when Bertuzzi had clobbered Clutterbuck with his stick. “You went down like a pussy!” There was another round of raucous fist-bumping before Clutterbuck reluctantly started palming his dick.
One by one, the men jacked it in turn to much enthusiastic hooting and hollering, leaving a messy abstract expressionist piece of art painted in cum at center ice. It was beautiful and they could only wonder if the Zamboni driver would notice the next day.