Page 93 of Say Yes to the Nemesis
Because to him, it isn’t. He’s in hyper-focus mode, his eyes searching the ice like he’s reading minds.
The first period flies by in a blur of thundering skates and crashing bodies. Ryan moves like water flowing around rocks, finding gaps where none should exist. When he’s got the puck, he’s untouchable. His stick work is poetry in motion, quick little taps and nudges that send the puck exactly where he wants it to go. I watch him fake left, pivot right, and slip past two defenders like they’re standing still.
“Did you see that?” Raven shrieks beside me. “How did he even do that?”
I want to explain that Ryan’s been doing moves like that since he was twelve, that I’ve watched him practice the same sequence a thousand times in our neighborhood rink. But I just nod and cheer along.
The opposing team starts targeting him. I can see it happening. Extra checks when he’s near the boards. Subtle slashes across his wrists that the refs don’t catch. A late hit that sends him sprawling into the corner. My stomach clenches every time someone lines him up for a hit.
“They’re going after him,” I mutter, gripping the rail tighter.
“Who?” Heidi asks.
“Number twenty-three. The big guy in white. He’s been gunning for Ryan all period.”
Sure enough, the next time Ryan touches the puck, number twenty-three is right there, throwing his shoulder into Ryan’s ribs. Ryan absorbs the hit and keeps skating like it’s nothing. But I see the way he stretches his back afterward. The way he flexes his fingers around his stick.
Then Ryan gets his revenge in the most Ryan way possible. He scores.
It happens so fast I almost miss it. A face-off in the attacking zone. The puck comes back to the point. Ryan drifts toward the net, looking casual, almost lazy. The defenseman passes to him without thinking. Ryan onetimes it, top shelf, bar down. The goalie doesn’t even move.
The red light goes on. The horn blares. The crowd explodes.
Ryan doesn’t celebrate like the other players. No fist pumps or stick raises. He just skates in a slow circle, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips like he knew it was going in before he even shot it. Show-off.
“THAT’S MY BOY!” some guy behind us screams.
I want to turn around and tell him that no, actually, that’s my… what? My what exactly? My brother’s best friend? My secret hookup? My complicated whatever this is?
The second period is more of the same. Ryan sets up two assists with passes so perfect they look scripted. He draws a penalty by being faster than the guy trying to hit him. He even drops back to play defense when their center gets a breakaway, skating backward at full speed and somehow stealing the puck without even looking like he’s trying.
“He’s everywhere,” Heidi breathes.
She’s right. Ryan is everywhere. Covering for his teammates. Making plays. Being the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by existing on the same ice.
But it’s the little things that really get to me. The way he taps his stick on the ice to call for a pass. The way he adjusts his helmet between shifts. The way he stretches his neck, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks. I know all these habits. I’ve been watching them for years.
During the second intermission, they show highlights on the Jumbotron. Ryan features in about half of them. The crowd cheers louder every time his face appears on screen. I catch myself smiling like an idiot when they replay his first goal in slow motion.
“You’re so obvious,” Raven teases, nudging my shoulder.
“I don’t know what you mean.” My neck grows hot.
“Girl, you light up every time he touches the puck. It’s adorable.”
I want to deny it, but she’s probably right. There’s something hypnotic about watching Ryan play hockey. It’s like seeing him in his natural habitat. This is who he really is underneath all the cameras and producers and artificial drama. This is Ryan at his most pure.
The third period starts differently. Both teams are tired now. The hits aren’t quite as crisp. The passes aren’t quite as sharp. But Ryan looks like he could play three more periods. He’s one of those players who gets stronger as the game goes on. More focused. More dangerous.
With five minutes left, the other team scores to tie it up. The crowd deflates a little. Even I feel the disappointment settling in my chest. But Ryan doesn’t look worried. If anything, he looks more determined.
He wins the next face-off cleanly. Draws the puck back to his defenseman. Then something magical happens. Ryan and his linemates start passing the puck like they’re playing keep-away from a bunch of kids. Quick little passes. One touches. Tic-tac-toe until the defense is spinning in circles trying to keep up.
It’s beautiful hockey. The kind that makes you forget you’re watching a charity game.
Ryan has the puck behind the net. He looks up, sees something I can’t, and makes a pass that shouldn’t be possible. Through three sets of legs, off the boards, right onto his teammate’s stick. The guy barely has to move to redirect it into the net.
Goal. Pure Ryan Haart magic.
