Page 68 of Between the Blue
The game is just so fast-paced. I can’t even comprehend how quickly these huge men are able to skate around each other, much less how they are able to keep track of the tiny puck in between it all.
The Storm have been playing great, as best as I can tell, and we’re currently up two to one, with Rhett and Ragnar both scoring in the first period.
Sorry.
Sutty and Rags.
My brain hurts from how much hockey lingo I’ve had to absorb over the last few weeks. Adding a nickname for every player in there didn’t do much to help.
I let my camera hang around my neck as I take a few steps back from the glass and lean against the tunnel wall, giving myself a two minute break. I roll my head around, trying to loosen my shoulders as I stare up at the ceiling.
I do think it’s funny. Everybody on the team goes by some sort of fun shortened version or clever play on words of their name. But Ben just goes by his last name. Everyone calls him James. I’m not sure why. Part of me feels like it makes sense though. It’s hard to imagine him going by anything silly when he’s so damn serious all the time. It also feels like him to not care to participate in anything just for fun. Ben just seems so intentional with everything he does. Like he doesn’t have a moment to waste. I can definitely understand that, in a way.
The crowd suddenly erupts, pulling me from my thoughts.
I dart forward, trying to find the source of the commotion that every person in the stands seems to be directing their yelling towards.
It only takes a couple of seconds before I see the sprawled out form of Luke Buckner out of our net, shaking his head and looking like he’s trying to come back to his senses as a player from the opposing stands over him.
“Nobody touches our goalie!” a grown man wails from the bleachers to my side, making me startle. Everyone around him shouts something in agreement, and, within seconds, the entire crowd starts chanting “Buck! Buck! Buck!”
I find myself wanting to join in as I turn my attention back to the scene. And then, suddenly, Rhett appears, shoving the player that knocked Luke out of his goal backwards. The player seemed to be ready for that, spinning around and grabbing a fistful of Rhett’s jersey.
I stand there with my jaw unhinged as I wait for one of them to make the next move, and then it suddenly occurs to me that I’m supposed to be taking photos. I shake my head, lifting up my camera.
I don’t even have time to take one photo though before Ben suddenly joins the scene, and I find myself nearly dropping my camera with how fast everything happens next.
Ben skates from clear across the ice at the fastest speed I’ve ever seen, not even pausing before he throws himself between the other player and Rhett, physically removing the player’s hand from Rhett’s jersey before he grabs his own two handfuls of the player’s jersey and throws him straight to the ground. There’s no way that player even has time to catch his breath before Ben flings his gloves off his hands and starts pounding his fists right into his face.
I let out a gasp, along with the rest of the crowd as Ben keeps on, not letting up for a second until two referees have to rip him off of the other player. With both refs grabbing Ben by the arms, the other player manages to sock Ben once right in the jaw before he is yanked out of his range.
My hand comes up to cover my mouth, and a feeling I can’t quite explain pinches me in the chest.
One of the referees steps away, making a motion with his arm and shouting something I can’t hear. The action means nothing to me, but clearly means something to the rest of the audience, who are letting out mixtures of exclamations and groans, and certainly Ben, who’s shaking his head and skating straight for the tunnel already.
Straight for me.
“That’s five minutes for fighting for number twenty-four, Bennett James,” the announcer calls over the loudspeaker, only making the crowd more rowdy.
I manage to stumble back a couple of steps and press my body against the tunnel wall a split second before Ben launches himself off the ice, ripping his helmet off his head. He storms down the tunnel and straight past me, walking faster with skates on than I ever have on my own two feet. Even with the speed he flies past me, I don’t miss the thick trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth or the pained look in his eyes.
With only four minutes left in the period, I guess Ben’s decided to just get a head start to the locker room before the game’s second intermission.
But something tells me it’s more than that.
Like he needed out of there.
And before I even know what I’m doing, as I hear the announcer begin to call the penalty for the opposing player, my feet are moving and I’m following right behind him.
One of the athletic trainers appears in Ben’s path with a towel in one hand and a medical kit in his other, looking like he’s trying to assess the damage to his face and help him clean up, but Ben just waves him off, tearing open the locker room door.
I’m allowed in the locker room for certain periods before and after games to get content, but I know I most definitely am not supposed to be in there right now, in the middle of a game. But with Ben only ten feet in front of me, and with the way he slams the door behind him so hard that it actually ricochets and flies back open, something tells me to go inside anyway.
I take a deep breath, walking through the doorway. I round the corner and immediately find Ben sitting down on a bench with his elbows on his knees, his back almost entirely to me with the angle he’s sitting at.
It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and I take a brief moment in the silence to wonder if I should just turn around and go back.
But it’s too late.
