Page 29 of The Alternate Captain
We turn the corner and make our way into the lobby of the hotel.
“Yes. I freaked out. I mean, if itisJohnny, which I’m pretty certain it’s not... He plays hockey with my brother and it’s just a bit—”
“So?” Tom pushes the button for the lift, and we climb in when the doors spring open. I hit the button for our floor.
“Mike would kill me. And him for that matter. Besides, I’m me, and he’s an athlete—”
“Stop it. There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says as the lift comes to a stop. A single ‘ding’ and the doors open.
Tom hovers the key card over the lock of the hotel room door and it makes a mechanical unlatching sound before he pushes it open.
“I’m not having this discussion with you right now,” I say.
I put my bag down on the desk, then take off my shoes before collapsing down on the bed.
“For once, Kelly, do me a favour and realise that you don’t have to settle for people like Darren. What if that really was Johnny, and he really was interested in you? Because there’s no way someone would carry on a conversation for three whole months if they weren’t.”
“Well, it wasn’t. And in the unlikely event that it was, I’m not interested. He’s a complete dick to my brother and—”
Tom cuts me off. “You never know. Maybe he can be himselfbehind a screen?”
I wave him off and busy myself getting ready for bed.
I’m feeling surprisingly sober now I’m in a different head space, reeling over the way Johnny looked at me. It couldn’t have been him, could it?
The final.The thirdperiod. And there’s less than five minutes remaining when Coach calls a time-out. We’re leading by a goal but as everyone knows, it isn’t won until it’s won.
Until the final buzzer sounds through the arena.
Until there’s no time left on the clock.
Bettsy and I are ready to take to the ice for our shift, hopping over the boards after Jonesy and Sonny make their way back to the bench. We don’t get very far though, because the puck goes out of play, sailing into the netting, and the ref blows his whistle.
Coach uses the opportunity for a little impromptu time-out, pulling us all into a huddle and giving Springy, the assistant coach, the nod to give us an address.
“You’ve got this. We do nothing special here. We just hold our own and keep the puck moving. Steady does it. No big moves. No chaos. Get the puck up towards the slot and give yourselves another chance.” Springy flashes his eyes in my direction. “Let’s go, boys.”
We position ourselves back on the offensive face-off circle, to the left of the netminder, and Prez lines up, ready to take the face-off. I check Bettsy’s positioning, catching him nudging shoulders with the guy he’s marking. His lips move and his eyebrows furrow—an argument brewing, I can tell.
The puck drops and Ryan scrambles for it, passing it across to Scottsy, but he loses possession when it’s poke-checked from him.
That’s when it happens.
Everything moves in slow motion. The puck. The end of my stick. The end of Bettsy’s stick. Bettsy himself, and that fucker from the opposition who’s fired a puck toward me that I know I won’t be able to catch. I yell at Bettsy, urging him to duck, butPerrott, a defenceman from the other team, changes direction and charges towards him instead, taking him out and into the air. The air leaves my lungs as Bettsy ricochets forwards. The force of the check has him landing on the ice, headfirst.
Thud.
The arena, which was buzzing with noise moments before, is quiet enough to hear a skate slice through the ice.
Silence everywhere.
The crowd.
Every man on the ice.
And Bettsy.
I scream his name. Tossing my stick to the side and hitting the deck. His left cheek presses against the ice, his helmet askew from the impact.
