Page 27 of The Alternate Captain
I have to force myself to pull my eyes away as I keep moving around the ice.
Shit.
Bettsy and I finally settle down on our bench and I set myself up for a stop right at the far end. It gives me a chance to see what everyone’s doing and how they’re reacting to plays. Initially, my focus is on Jonesy and Sonny, who are taking the first shift, but once the puck moves into the offensive zone, I shift my attention to Bettsy, who’s as eager as I am to get out there.
“Remember, bud, keep it cool, yeah?”
“I got this,” he says, swinging his legs over, readying himself. As soon as Sonny touches up, Bettsy’s away and I quickly fall in line behind him just as the puck sails into our defensive zone. I call it, and check my area, giving myself permission to sail it across to Bettsy, now sitting at our D-zone point. Out of nowhere, an opposing forward sails right into him, practically crushing him against the door to the penalty box. I’d argue an interference call since Bettsy had passed the puck, but it’s borderline.
There’s a mix of jeers and boos as Bettsy scrambles to his skates, but he must see something I don’t because he motions across the ice for me to follow his lead, something we’ve done a million times. I have a good idea of what’s coming next.
It starts off with a push into the offensive zone, with one of the opposing ‘D’ men clearly out of position. It’s their enforcer—a huge guy, bigger than me and Bettsy, for sure. His name is Patrick Langdon, and he’s the definition of a brute. Hell knows what’s going on, but he’s distracted. He doesn’t even track the puck, which is currently with Ryan, hustling behind the net.
Bettsy slides into place and calls back to me, and as soon as Ryan flicks it to Bettsy, I one-time it, sending it right below the glove of the goalie.
Red light and buzzer.
I point at Bettsy, a smile illuminating his face, and he sails right into me, knocking me into the arms of Ryan and Jani, our first line centre.
“Excellent play, Johnny-boy,” someone shouts, but that was all on Bettsy.
His intuition and awareness of the puck made that play happen. I’m not a big goal scorer, but for a defenceman, I don’t do bad. Bettsy is like the magic ingredient, and I love him for it. We’re the perfect combination of defensive styles for our team and it makes things happen. I’ve never had this synergy with a linemate before and I’m here, living for it.
“Look at the face of that prick,” Bettsy says, nodding his head towards Langdon as we head back to the bench.
“He was the one out of place—wait, don’t tell me you’ve fucked his girlfriend?” Langdon looks out for blood, but Bettsy reassures me he has nothing to do with the wrath directed at us.
“It’s probably just because he wasn’t concentrating, and he’ll be getting it in the neck from his coach.”
We dash through the open door to the bench and take a seat.
“Nice work, boys,” Coach says, leaning down between us. The crowd has recovered, and the ref is setting up for a face-off.
“All Bettsy,” I say. Coach smirks at me before grabbing his clipboard and leaning into Springy.
“This is our game, Cap,” Bettsy whispers, and you know what? I think I believe him.
Tom is under strictinstructions not to mention who my brother is when we tag along to a bar with a load of other fans after the game. It’s my favourite sort of place. Music pumping from a loudspeaker in the corner, but not so much that you can’t hear yourself think, and decent drinks with actual glasses—not the plastic ones they force on you after big events.
We all gravitate towards the back where there are a few tables free, and get some drinks ordered. Tom sticks to beer, but I decide to mix things up with a gin and tonic that I’ll probably regret later–but it may add weight to the fake stomach bug. My throat is hoarse from cheering, and I know I’ll be feeling as rough as sandpaper tomorrow, but the excitement and buzz from the game has everyone on a high.
We’re going to the final.
I text my brother, congratulating him on their win and he replies with a single ‘thumbs up’ emoji. And I guess he’s probably celebrating somewhere until he texts me a few hours later.
Mike
Sorry, Kel. Cap’s been riding our asses tonight. The pressure is getting to him.
“Is he talking about Johnny?” Tom says, reading over my shoulder.
“Yes,” I say, slipping my phone away. “I think he’s a bit of an authoritarian on and off the ice.”
And straight away, the vision of Johnny’s eyes on mine is back at the forefront of my mind.
“He can ride my ass as much as he wants,” Tom swoons.
“You’re disgusting.”
