Page 74 of Crossing the Top Line

I try to ignore him, but then he’s right there, shoulder checking me as he passes, nearly knocking me off my feet.

Whipping around, my stick clenched hard in my hands, I fight the urge to crack it over his thick skull. But then Dallas is there, a hand on my chest.

“He’s not worth it, BlackJack,” he mutters calmly.

I growl, seriously considering if the suspension would be worth the satisfaction. But in the end, I let Dallas push me back toward the bench, climbing over the half wall and practically throwing myself onto the bench.

God, this is going to be a long game.

I’vewatchedmorehockeygames than I can reasonably count or recall. Rivalries, playoffs, championships, you name it. But in my twenty-eight years, I’ve never seen a hockey game this ruthless and violent.

The timer counts down yet another penalty, and Henri flies out of the box, joining his line as they make a rush through the neutral zone. This is the fourth penalty kill we’ve had to endure, and we’re not even halfway through the second period. The Wardens are drawing about as many penalties, which is a cold comfort. I don’t know if we’ve played a total of ten minutes at even strength since this game started.

“What the hell is going on down there?” Sebastian, the social media manager for the Wardens, comments in astonishment.

I shrug, but my stomach is heavy. I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m the source of the tension between the two teams, but I’m not going to admit it out loud. I’ll just count it as a blessing that we only have to play this team twice a year at most.

The goal horn blows, the fans on their feet as the Wardens score their second goal of the night, bringing the score back to even. I have to stand to see over the heads of the spectators in front of the press box, trying to keep my eye on the players. I bite my lip as Nathan, Markus, and Riku Janecyk try to make their way back to the bench, stopping as the Wardens skate in front of them. I don’t have anyone mic’d up tonight, so I can’t hear what’s being said, but judging by the way Nathan holds up his arms, slowly advancing on the Wardens’ bench, I can only imagine the words of challenge being shouted.

“Someone’s going to end up leaving here in a body bag if they keep this up,” Sebastian sighs, typing out his posts on his laptop.

“God, I hope not,” I reply, leg bouncing under the table we’re sharing.

There’s a tension in my gut as play resumes, and no amount of compartmentalization helps me ignore it. I’ve never felt this anxious at a game, never been this concerned about the hits or the checks. Hockey is an intense game, fast-paced and violent even when there isn’t any underlying tension between players on opposing teams. That’s what makes it so exciting to watch. I shouldn’t have this pit of boiling acid in my gut, and my heart shouldn’t jump into my throat whenever someone hits the boards.

With a sigh, I sit back as I try to get myself together while play has stopped. I have a job to do, and I know I’ve been slacking. I manage to tear my eyes away from the ice to post a highlight clip of Owen’s goal, the routine helping to settle my frail nerves, at least temporarily. We’re close to the end of the second period. Eight more minutes, and then twenty more in the third and we can blow this popsicle stand.

I turn my attention back to the game as the players come to center ice for the faceoff. The Wardens’ logo, a cartoon man in the stereotypical black-and-white prison stripes and a ski mask, only highlights the white road jerseys and their purple trim. A stark contrast to the Wardens slate gray and white colors, for sure. Spencer, Oli, and Eli are back out on the ice, and I hold my breath as I wait for the puck to drop. Spencer and Tristan are low to the ice, sticks ready. Every time they’re out together, the tension in the building ratchets up to eleven and this is no exception. But thankfully, we win the faceoff and play resumes.

“You’re expecting someone to drop the gloves?” Sebastian asks, tone a little too conversational for my liking right now.

“It’s a miracle it hasn’t happened already,” I reply, voice distant as my eyes track the puck relentlessly.

Possession seesaws back and forth, neither team making any progress down the ice to attempt shots on goal. The shift is long, no one able to get to the bench without risking a breakaway. But eventually, I’m able to breathe out as Oli maneuvers over the half wall and Dallas takes his place. Eli goes next, Alexi sprinting to join the play within microseconds of Eli’s skates coming off the ice, followed by a quick change on defense. But Spencer is trapped behind Jari in goal, two Wardens on either side of him, preventing him from making a move. But he keeps his head up, intentionally moving from side to side, like he’s trying to figure out a path through. It’s a clever trick, drawing the Wardens farther and farther down the ice and letting his teammates get set up. And then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he rockets a pass between two Wardens and right onto Dallas’s waiting stick, who turns and makes a break for the goal.

“That sort of shit wouldn’t fly here. Too risky,” Sebastian mutters, a distinctly irritated sneer pulling at his upper lip.

I open my mouth to reply, but my words die in a wordless shout as I get to my feet, hands flying to my mouth. My eyes stayed with Spencer after his pass, ensuring he made it back to the bench. But halfway there, a Warden comes out of nowhere, skating full speed into Spencer’s side and knocking him off his feet and sending him sliding into the wall in front of the home team’s bench.

I’m frozen as I watch, willing Spencer tomove, to get up and get back to the bench. But heartbeats tick by, and he doesn’t roll, doesn’t even attempt to get to his feet. Finally, play is whistled down, and a strange hush falls over the arena. I pack my laptop with record speed and sprint out of the press box before anyone can stop me.

I barely hear anything beyond the pounding of my racing heart in my ears as I run down the stairs and through security, thanking my lucky stars I chose to wear flats today instead of my usual heels. Distantly, I catch people shouting, trying to figure out what’s wrong with me, but I don’t pay them any attention. The halls below the stands are a maze, and I get turned around twice before I finally find my way to the medical suite.

Skidding to a halt, I watch a group of Mystic trainers and equipment managers coming toward me, a stretcher in the center of their huddled group. My throat constricts, and I can only manage thin, wheezing breaths as I watch in mute horror as they disappear into an exam room. Slowly, I make my way toward them, my hands shaking.

“Can I sit up now? I’m seriously fine.”

I let out a shuddering breath as I hear Spencer’s annoyed snap, swallowing hard. Thank God, he’s not so hurt that he can’t speak. I linger in the open doorway, moving out of the way to allow the equipment team out to resume their duties. But a trainer and the team doctor remain, hands on Spencer’s shoulders as he sits up slowly, groaning slightly.

“Did you black out when you hit the boards? Any blurry vision?” the doctor asks urgently, pulling out a small penlight to shine in Spencer’s eyes.

“No, just got the wind knocked out of me and was a little dizzy getting up. My shoulders hit first,” Spencer replies, an air of forced calm.

They go back and forth, and I can only stare, not willing to draw attention to myself yet. Spencer’s black curls are damp with sweat, his already broad body even bulkier with his pads. There’s a crease to his brow, like he’s fighting to keep his expression neutral, but I’m not sure the doctor’s buying it.

“Well, we’re going to have to do a more thorough check when we’re back home, but for now, you’re out,” the doctor says, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Spencer groans, but doesn’t protest. At least he’s smart enough to know when he’s beat. The doctor gives him some parting instructions before heading back out to the ice, and the trainer scurries off to get some ice for his shoulders, leaving Spencer and me alone.

---