Page 7 of These Wicked Games
I take off my gloves and jersey, and sit in my pads and compression shirt to watch the game. We really need to invest in snacks for the penalty box. Grey, Atlas, Ryker, and now Sev Lochlan, our center, have the game on them now. I really don’t want to go to OT. They got this. All of the guys on our team are amazing athletes. We worked our asses off during a rebuild, and with some new guys and well-placed trades last year we made the playoffs but got eliminated during the second round. We will get through playoffs this year, though. While the season’s just started, I know it will happen. I will personally see to it. The Cup is ours.
I watch intently as Atlas and Grey weave around the ice. Grey fakes a shot ahead, instead slapping it back to Sev, a fucking tank of a man. He skates a bit slower than I do—fast despite my size—but he clips a Viper before shooting the puck to Ryker. I look up and the clock is winding down fast.
Ryker looks to shoot to the net but slaps it back to Grey. Grey skates ahead, fakes out shooting the puck to the net on the right. Andre jumps to block, but Grey shoots it to Atlas who drives the puck hard to the left of Andre, getting it in! “Fuck yeah, Atlas!” I scream from the box, slamming my hand against the plexiglass box. “I know, that’s fucking right!” The attendant seems unimpressed with my shouting and banging. “You see how awesome my friend is?” He blinks at me then goes back to his tablet. Whatever, dude. My team is amazing; everyone should be awed.
My best friend celebrates with his teammates huddled close, then he skates off to our bench. I see Andre shake his head, grabbing his water bottle and squirting some into his helmet. I just wish I could see the shame in his eyes. I look up. Nearly forty seconds left in the game.
They reset. The puck drops. I watch as Ryker gains the advantage, skating down to Grey who shoots it toward Ivan. It’s clear what they’re doing, shooting it back and forth, winding out the clock. Pace gets put in for Grey, and we lose the advantage. I look over at Rocky, our goalie, who tenses seeing a hoard of Vipers and Otters skating toward him.
Fast.
Too fucking fast.
They aren’t paying attention, more focused on the puck and preventing a shot than where they’re going. “Hey!” I scream.
It’s as if everything runs through a time-warp machine, slowing down. I see it happen so slowly, yet it’s happening way too fucking fast.
They collide.
The crowd falls silent. There’s a mess of limbs and bodies and I can’t fucking see. I slap the glass, helpless. I peel off my pads. The whistle sounds and there’s this sickening whisper that falls over the arena. “Hey!” I yell again, banging on the glass. “Let me out.” Ignoring the rules—fuck this—I get out of the box, skating over. I don’t give a shit that it isn’t allowed. I skate over and my stomach drops seeing Rocky on the ground not moving. “Hey!” I drop to my knees, looking at him. A couple of the Vipers swarm around, but concern is in their eyes as well. This is a brutal game, but there’s a silent respect we all have for players, especially our goalies.
Well . . . most goalies.
“We need a stretcher,” a paramedic says.
“Kuli.” Grey puts his hand on my shoulder. Fuck, I hate this. I hate seeing one of my guys down, and this looks bad.
“What happened?” I ask Atlas as they help me up away from Rocky.
“One of the guys—it happened so fast I don’t know who—collided with Rocky, his helmet came off, and he was pinned between the bar and Ryker. He was shoved into him. Hit his head really bad off the crease.” The words sink in. I see it now. Blood seeps from the back of his head.
“Fuck.”
Most definitely a concussion, probably worse. My stomach tumbles in on itself.
I hear a few words from the medic, words like “fracture” and “neck” swirl in the chaos, but it feels like I’m underwater or having an out of body experience.
I see Landon, our backup goalie skate onto the ice. Landon’s okay, but nowhere near the level Rocky’s at, or the level we need tokeep playing future games. Especially if we’re hoping to get to the playoffs.
“Is he going to be okay?” I hear, and look up to find the source. I freeze seeing Andre standing with us, watching Rocky. Our eyes meet but I look away. Finally they get Rocky onto the stretcher, a painstakingly delicate task. The arena erupts in cheers—players and fans—as Rocky’s wheeled away. Vipers bang their sticks for him.
I look up at the jumbotron. We only have twelve seconds left in the game.
I hate this part.
While most games it’s easy for me to put my feelings in a neat little box and shove them away, seeing a teammate get hurt and then just being expected to go about the game like it didn’t happen is hell. The ice gets cleaned, and Landon gets in the net. Fans keep cheering as Rocky’s wheeled off the ice. Like I said, it’s a brutal game, but respect is given when needed.
We skate to the center and reset, but I see the look in the Vipers’ eyes as I pass to go back to the box. They’re shaken too. We play the game as if we’re immortal, but we’re not. Once we leave the ice we all have families, friends, hopes, and other passions to get back to. I’m tugged back by the zebra asshole, and skate back to the penalty box. Everyone gets into position and I watch.
The whistle blows. The puck drops.
No one moves.
I stand straighter, realizing they aren’t taking a shot.
We stand for the slowest twelve seconds of my life as the clock runs out and the buzzer whistles. I get out of the box, skating toward Knox. He reaches out to me, shaking my hand.A tentative truce. It’s a win none of us feel good about right now. “I’m really sorry, Kuli.” I don’t really have a problem with the Vipers as a whole. Knox’s feud with Colton is theirs to work through, and yes I hate Andre, but at one time I’d wished I could be part of their team.
None of it matters now. I grabbed onto the first NHL team that would have me.
