Page 74 of Between the Blue
I tilt my head, taking a few steps closer and waving a hand in front of his face. “Um, hello?”
“What?” he grits.
“You said I could ask you a question.”
“Yeah,” he says, continuing his workout. “Didn’t say I’d answer.”
Right.
I blow out a breath, going back to what I was doing.
So close yet so far.
The first game turns out to be about what I expected.
Nuts.
Seeing the sold out, fully packed arena absolutely blew my mind.
Now I understand what Tiffany and Rick were saying about Texas having some of the most dedicated fans in hockey. The energy of the crowd was absolutely unmatched as the players came out onto the ice, their cheers the loudest of all when Ben stepped onto it last.
I figured the actual game aspect wouldn’t be that much different than it was in the preseason, but, even though I didn’t know it was possible, it’s like every player on the ice doubled their speed and aggressiveness.
One thing that stayed totally consistent, however, is that Ben got into another fight. This one didn’t draw blood, but it went on for what felt like forever before Rhett and a player from the other team were able to rip the two of them apart.
Even now, as a referee is trying to escort Ben to the penalty box to serve his two minutes for roughing, he’s trying to break free and go back for more, still shouting something at the player he’s surely already given a black eye to for bumping into John Wisneski– who the guys call Wiz– just a little harder than necessary.
Two referees finally manage to wrangle Ben, forcing him back and into the box. I watch him as the glass door closes and he gets one last verbal jab in before he finally takes a seat on the bench.
Ben places his elbows on his knees, his head shaking as he drops it low, looking to mutter to himself while he waits for his two minutes to be up.
I don’t really know what to make of it all.
Ben is intimidating as all hell, don’t get me wrong.
But he’s also so quiet, so stoic. It’s like he almost has a way to fade into his surroundings, totally on the outskirts of everything at all times.
Yet, the second he steps on that ice, he’s the first one to be in the middle of any conflict. The first one to throw a punch. It’s like he’s saving up all his energy the rest of his life, waiting to unleash it the moment a game begins. Maybe it’s just a part of being the captain, but it’s just not something I would have expected from him.
I raise my camera, zooming in to where Ben sits across the ice from me. Just as the image comes into focus, he raises his head, his eyes locking right on me.
I take the photo.
What’s your story, Bennett James?
I close my laptop, finally finished with all of the necessary postgame social media posts. There are a lot more great photos from today between myself and the other photographers, but they can wait until tomorrow morning.
I slide my bag onto my shoulder, exiting the designated arena workspace and closing the door behind me. I turn, beyond readyto head straight for my car in the parking garage, but end up coming face to face with someone’s chest.
I rear back, startled.
“Oh, my bad, Dixon. You came out of nowhere.”
I glance up, finding brown eyes staring down at me, more chocolate than the caramel ones I’ve grown used to finding at every turn. The next difference I register that helps to relax my heart rate is the brown hair sticking out from under the Texas Storm ball cap. More chestnut than espresso, and far curlier. And then there’s the smile.
“Rhett,” I breathe. “Hey, sorry about that.”
“No worries,” he smirks, patting my shoulder before stepping out of my path.
