Page 53 of Don't Leave
He just seems…off.
He’s playing with a lot more aggression than normal. Over the past few months, I’ve learned that Cole is a smart player who understands the fundamentals of the game. He hits when it’s necessary and advantageous for the team. And his hits are always clean and legal. He’s not one to draw a penalty for being cheap.
Just as I think that, Cole slams into one of the other team’s forward. The sheer force of his hit sends them both crashing into the boards. The crowd winces at the reverberation that ripples throughout the chilly arena. I freeze and watch as the other player drops to the ice.
It’s not a surprise when Cole receives a penalty for roughing.
To make matters worse, he argues with the ref as he skates over to the penalty box before throwing himself inside. After he slumps onto the bench, one of his coaches rips him a new one.
Stunned, I watch with wide eyes as the older man’s arms cut through the air.
Brooklyn leans toward me before whispering, “What’s up with him?”
While my friend might not totally grasp the finer points of the game, she knows enough to realize that this isn’t a normal behavior for Cole.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, not wanting to believe that the way Cole is playing tonight has anything to do with what happened between us earlier.
Deep down, I know it does.
The rest of the game doesn’t fare any better for him or the team. Even though the Wolves started out with a three-goal lead, their opponents took advantage of Cole’s two-minute penalty by scoring two goals in quick succession while he sat in the box. The third was made on his second trip to the penalty box during the middle of the third period.
As soon as the opposing team ties the game, the Wolves’ frustration level becomes almost palpable. It’s like a living breathing entity filling the arena. The players aren’t the only ones pissed off by the three-goal lead that has disappeared. Fans are on their feet, shouting and booing. All I can do is sit frozen in place and hold Brooklyn’s hand, squeezing the very life out of it as a nausea churns in my belly.
Cole has received two penalties for roughing during this game. I’ve never even seen him draw one penalty. This kind of behavior is so unlike the guy I’ve gotten to know over the previous few months. I’ve never seen him be anything less than calm and collected.
Worse than that, he and Luke are getting into it on the ice.
It’s impossible to hear what’s being said, but it’s obvious from the tension radiating off them that their exchanges have become contentious. They’re supposed to be a united front on the ice and they’re anything but. The bad energy is affecting the entire team.
With less than a minute and a half to go, the other team charges down the ice. Cole blocks them, slamming into aforward before knocking the puck loose. A scuffle ensues and Luke joins the fray. For a few tense seconds, it’s impossible to see what’s going on or who has the puck. My gaze flicks anxiously to the game clock.
There are sixty seconds left.
That’s plenty of time for the Wolves to score and win the game. In hockey, a team can score with just a few seconds on the clock from the other end of the ice.
The puck is knocked loose from the pile of players as Austin swoops in and nabs it. He digs his blades into the ice and kicks it into high gear. The crowd surges to their feet in anticipation. They scream and cheer as Austin races toward the net. Just as Austin closes in, he rips off a lightning quick shot. Everyone within the arena holds their breath, waiting for the puck to hit the back of the net.
Just when it seems like there’s no way he won’t score the winning goal, the other team’s goalie slides, effectively blocking the shot. The game ends in a tie. Even though it’s not a loss, the Wolves aren’t happy.
And neither is their head coach.
Nerves churn uncomfortably in my belly as we watch both teams file off the ice. Everyone looks pissed off. Even the fans.
“Well,” Brooklyn says, drawing my attention to her, “that was one hell of a game.”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
But it wasn’t good.
We rise to our feet, both ready to vacate the cold arena. There’s a good possibility that my butt is numb. It feels good to get up and stretch my muscles. Although, I’m undecided as to what to do.
Should I stick around and talk to him?
Or wait until tomorrow when we’ve both had time to get a little perspective?
Brooklyn seems to understand my internal struggle. “Are we waiting around or taking off?”
When I’d come here tonight, I’d assumed Cole and I would be able to clear the air after the game. That no longer feels like a good idea.
