Page 41 of Body Check

In a sea of tangerine orange, I spot a lone blue-and-silver jersey.

Blades fans representing in enemy territory—gotta love them.

“Might want to sit down, old man. Wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself on reality TV,” Fitzgerald grunts by my ear as he tries to hook the biscuit and steal it away.

Not happening.

Vision still swirling, head still pounding, I hunch my shoulders and bulldoze my way out of the hole with enough force that Fitzgerald falls back. I skim my gaze over the ice, the players flying toward me from all angles as nausea rips up my throat and everything goes topsy-turvy.

Not right now, not right now.

By sheer force of will, I keep my protein shake down and feed the puck to Bordeaux where he’s waiting outside the crease. Fitzgerald curses behind me, knocking into my shoulder as he flies toward the net. I follow a heartbeat later, fully prepared to tackle the asshole if he so much as—

Bordeaux lines up the shot and snaps the puck forward.

—fuck.

Fitzgerald’s partner-in-crime clears the puck, stopping what would have been a filthy clapper, and proceeds to hustle down the rink.

Unlike when we played Nashville, the Philadelphia Flyers aren’t jerking around.

The fierce competitor in me demands that we switch lines and get Beaumont and Cain on the ice to do their job. Losing isn’t an option, not even in preseason, but neither is keeping the rookies off the ice until game day hits, when we all realize that they’re timid and nervous and un-fucking-capable of protecting Harrison in the net.

Today doesn’t count. I tell that to myself when Kammer misses an opportunity to gain possession of the puck. I repeat the same mantra when, in the next period, our rookie center loses the face-off. I curse under my breath, repeating it once more, when the Flyers’ forward successfully drops a pass and our second-line defenseman, Quinton Dennis, falls for the ploy. A second later, the Flyers swoop up the temporarily discarded puck and head straight for Harrison.

Stick back.

Head down.

They score.

Even though the scoreboard doesn’t lie about our 2-2 tie, as the last few seconds of the game tick away, I’m on the verge of sitting every one of my players down and having a come-to-Jesus moment about how much they fucking sucked tonight.

A tie is not a win—it’s a glorified participation ribbon for those over the age of fifteen.

As we shake hands with the Flyers after the buzzer sounds off, I can’t ignore that the pressure from helmet-meets-Plexiglas has yet to disperse. It only worsens when we head to the locker room, the crew ofGetting Puckedalready there and waiting to go all psychoanalyst on us and decipher what exactly it was that had us falling apart on the ice.

My vision softens, turning the crispness of life into a blurry mosaic of different colors when I reach my stall.Focus, focus, focus.With shaky fingers, I drop my stick on the bench and then tear into my duffel.

Side-panel. Zipper closed.

It’s gaping open a second later, my bare hand diving in to find the bottle of painkillers that I’ve tucked away for cases like these.

Cases like when I just don’t feel right, when my head feels like it’s been submerged in an unrelenting fog, when my knees quiver and the thought of holding myself up on my skates for any length of time seems like a dauntless, unachievable task.

Planting a stabilizing hand on the stall, I toss back the pills and swallow them dry.

Three pills, as prescribed by my primary-care doctor when I told him about my migraines months ago. The dosage was only meant to tide me over until my appointment with Dr. Mebowitz, he said. I went to that lucrative appointment . . . I just never went back after that.

So, the three pills it is. I never take more, always too aware that many a great hockey player has come before me—and many will follow—who have succumbed to addiction. That’s not me: the rehab, the addiction.

But, holy hell, Fitzgerald hit me like a damn giant chasing down a tiny, porcelain figurine.

In this scenario, I’m the porcelain figurine.

Lucky me.

The guys filter into the locker room, stripping off their jerseys and their pads, and I do, too, at a much slower pace. Slower, a little less coordinated. Gloves in the duffel; jersey over my head; compression shorts and hockey pants in the bag. Briefs and sweats are yanked up my legs.

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