Page 6 of The Alternate Captain
“Well, Kelly, I’m sure Bettsy appreciates you coming.”
“I told him I wasn’t going to, but I felt guilty since it’s a big game.”
“Of course. It’s Scott’s last chance at the playoff cup before we move to Germany.”
By the time the first period break rolls around, I know all about Lauren’s plans to move to Ingolstadt.
“I think someone is already earmarked to take Scott’s spot. How well do you know the guys?” She refers to the team, but I shake my head. Mike talks about them at family events, sure, but I’ve paid no attention to the details. “Well, number nineteen, he’s a twin. His brother is likely going to be joining the team.”
As we leave our seats, I smile and nod in all the right places whilst she talks, and we follow a small crowd of people towards the bar.
“So, what makes you hate hockey so much?”
“I remember Mike taking this hit that literally knocked him out cold, and it’s stuck with me since. I was only a kid and I remember him just lying there, face down on the ice. He was just lying there like he was... dead.” I clear my throat, trying to hold back the tears that are desperate to make an appearance. I can’t bring myself to tell Lauren the full reason why. “He says it’s part of his game, and I know that, but still. I just don’t like it.”
My brother’s a powerful guy. And until that hit, I loved watching him play. I loved the joy and concentration on his face as he soared across the ice. I know all the rules, all the calls, all the play styles—I guess I was obsessed to some degree. But seeing him like that turned it into something I dreaded to watch. I know his ‘stay-at-home’ defensive style serves a purpose. And his style compliments his defensive pairing—an offensive-defencemen. He says he needs to protect and enable him. He makes it sound like he’s his guard dog or something, which is ridiculous.
“I’m sorry you had to see that. That must have been tough.”
“Yeah, it was.” I swallow down the emotion pushing to the surface.
We grab a beer each and head back to our seats, just as the Zamboni finishes its last lap of the ice.
By the time the teams skate back out for the second period, my single beer has calmed me down enough so I can enjoy the game. I’m not a big drinker, so it goes straight to my head. I sing to the music, joining in the claps and cheers, and I even jump to my feet when we score. It’s all good until Mike and the rest of the guys position themselves, ready to take a face-off. He shouts something over to the guy wearing the captain’s badge, then indistinguishable words fly back and forth between thepair. The captain shouts and signals across the ice, motioning to someone, and as soon as the face-off is taken, Mike is charging towards the target.
I’ve seen nothing like it before.
“Why is he spurring him on?” I ask Lauren, splitting my attention between her and the ice.
“It’s just part of the game. Try not to worry,” she soothes.
But I don’t like it. The next moment, Mike gets elbowed in the face as the captain skates off unscathed with the puck. Prick. He should have been the target for that elbow.
To heighten my anxiety, a commotion occurs right against the boards and, of course, my surname flashes into view briefly as the opposing defenceman elbows Mike for a second time and pulls his shirt. The noise of the crowd ramps up as two sets of gloves are dropped. I have to adopt the brace position, practically folded in half on my seat as queasiness washes over me. I can’t watch.
“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Lauren says. “I’ll tell you when you can look.”
Everyone around me gets to their feet. The music starts and cheers erupt from the spectators. I stay in my seat until Lauren flicks her chair back down and sits again.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, he’s fine. I think he’ll get a major for that, though. But he’s got the energy going.”
“I don’t think I can stay,” I say, defeated. The happy, post-beer sensation I had less than five minutes before has vanished.
I take the opportunity to thank Lauren for being so friendly before I grab my bag and squeeze out of my row, scrambling up the steps towards the upper-level lobby, which opens out into a large area with banners and memorabilia scattered around.
I’m just catching my breath when I glance up and double-take the eight-foot banner draped overhead. An action shot of the captain celebrating. It hits me square in the chest.
Oh my God.
John.
No. Not John. Johnny. Johnny Koenig. The same guy I’ve heard Mike refer to as ‘Cap’ a hundred times.
Confusion sets in after a full minute of standing there, mouth wide open. I reach for my phone and pull up the message thread I’ve got with John. We’ve been chatting on an app for almost three months now, and we’ve exchanged a few photos.
I pull up the most recent picture from three weeks ago and compare it with the banner overhead. The same blue eyes and unmistakable jawline. He’s wearing a helmet in the banner, but I can tell it’s the same dirty blond hair, freshly cut in the photo.
