Page 24 of Body Check

They’re looking to avoid injury, and we’re out to dominate and draw blood.

I’m on the bench tonight, as I always am for the first game of preseason. Watching and analyzing alongside Coach Hall to scope out our weak spots and discuss what we can do to bolster our lines. It’s a proposal I made a few years back with the Blades—a tip I picked up from the captain of the Stars when I played for them—and it’s something that has always helped me to counterattack when I’m in the rink.

Only, tonight we look like vultures swarming in for the kill.

I don’t know whether to applaud or wince when Marshall Hunt, our top-notch center, nails the puck in at the net’s junction, lighting the lamp a half-second later.

4-1 is now 5-1.

And we’re only in the second period with another six minutes to go before the third.

“This is getting ugly,” I mutter. I’m in a suit, just like Coach, and the hem of my tailored jacket lifts as I fit my hands on my hips and stare resolutely at the ice. “If this is any indication as to how their season is gonna go, they’re either fucked or scared to make big moves.”

Coach watches as our guys thump Hunt on the back before tossing his clipboard on the bench beside Cain. “Maybe we’re just that good.”

“You think?”

“Not even a little.” Rubbing his mustache, he adds, “But I do think we’re playing a little harder now that we’ve gotGetting Puckedhovering around us all the time. No one wants to look like shit when you have a TV crew ready to catch you looking like shit.”

That, I can believe.

In the last few weeks, theGetting Puckedproduction crew has been everywhere. In the locker rooms after practice. In the standsduringpractice. Shoving microphones in our faces whenever we pause long enough to guzzle Gatorade when we’re switching lines. I’ve even been approached while pissing in one of the arena’s urinals, my dick clamped in hand.

If there wasn’t an official end date to the madness, I’d be concerned thatGetting Puckedis a bit like contracting herpes—once you’re infected, it’s yours for life.

The Predators make a call to switch from first to second lines, and Coach snaps at Josh Kammer and Daxton Garrett to get in there and sub out Bordeaux and Hunt. They do, and the rest of the game passes exactly as the first two periods have. I’m halfway convinced Harrison let a goal slip in the five-hole, during the last twenty seconds of the game, out of pure pity.

The final score? 7-2.

Talk about a massacre on the ice—but instead of entrails being swept up by the Zamboni after the game, there are hats and towels.

I trail my teammates as they tromp on their skates back to the locker room, but I don’t get far.Getting Pucked’s director—Mark Fillmore, a.k.a the Celine Dion enthusiast—cuts me off just before the locker room.

“Mind if we hit you with some questions before you join the team?” he asks, jerking a thumb to his camera and sound guys. “We want to capture your initial reaction to what you saw on the ice.” With a snap of his fingers, his two guys move forward and get in my face. “How do you feel about taking home the first preseason win?”

Play nice, man. Don’t be a dick.

It’s my job to watch my boys on the ice and study their every last move, just like it’s this guy’s job to make good TV. I get that. I know that. And it’s the only reason that I shove my hands deep into the front pockets of my slacks and get comfortable, resigned to doing what needs to be done.

“Naturally, I’m excited to see the team play well.” I let out a low chuckle, hoping that it doesn’t sound strained. “But at the end of the day, it’s preseason, which means it doesn’t really matter how well we did. It’s practice on a larger scale, nothin’ more.”

Fillmore’s eyes pop open wide, as though my willingness to talk has surprised him, and he rolls his fingers in the air, urging me to continue.

My cheeks pinch as I force a smile. “Nashville played soft. They’re working a different game than we are right now, and that’s not an indicator that they’ll do shitty this season or that we’ll win every game.” I’m not so much of an idiot that I’ll trash talk another team in an interview that’ll be seen by the masses in a week’s time. Offering a casual shrug, I say, “Every team has different tactics.”

“But with seven goals on the Blades’ end, that’s a rather bold statement to make for a first game.”

I stare at the camera. “What’s bolder? Protecting your best players from injury? Or putting your first line out on day one with the hope that you can see where your weak points sit?”

The camera breaks from me and swings toGetting Pucked’s director. It’s easy to see that he’s pondering what I’ve said—he pinches the collar of his dress shirt, popping the top button free like he’s either overheated or buying himself some time before answering. And then he verbally swivels in another direction when he says, “Before you were traded to the Blades, you were the assistant captain for the Boston Bruins for two seasons. Do you think that experience put you in place to do well in the Blades franchise?”

“I think my love for the sport put me in a good position to do well with the Blades. Experience gets you far, but an innate understanding of the game gets you further.”

“And you have this . . .innateunderstanding, yes?”

When you’ve lived and breathed something for thirty years of your life, it’s no longer an “understanding.” It’s something much bigger, something I could never put into words, even if I tried.

At the end of the day, Iamhockey.

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