Page 18 of The Legend Next Door
“Holy shit! Did you see that?” I yell, still on my feet with both hands in the air. “Did you see what he did there? My God, it was unreal. Do you see what I mean, Moop? Do you see how good he is?”
“Was,” says Marcus.
It’s a single word, but it deflates me. It hurts my feelings irrationally because it’s true. Ben is retired. I know Ben’s retired. Everyone knows that.
I sit back down on the sofa, opting for a seat a little farther from Marcus this time.
“What do you want to watch instead?” I ask.
“Dunno.Schitt’s Creek,Parks and Rec,Brooklyn 99. I don’t care, just anything but this.”
“Those are all reruns. We’ve seen them like a million times.”
Marcus turns his head sharply to me. “You were literally just watching a rerun of a game played four years ago.”
“I know that, Marcus. ButIhaven’t seen it before.”
It’s late in the day, almost midnight. I finished my yoga practice a couple of hours ago, and I was feeling peaceful and centered. I’d like to keep it that way. This time of day is for winding down, not being wound up. Marcus is a night owl and often pops over late. I usually don’t mind because I love his company, but recently, I’ve started thinking it might be better if he comes over earlier and leaves me to do my hockey-watching in private.
“Are you still going next door every day to take him a coffee?” he asks, trying and failing to remove the judgment from his voice.
“No. Not everysingleday.”
It’s true. Kind of. I didn’t take him coffee last Tuesday because I had an early yoga class that I couldn’t reschedule. I did pop in that afternoon to give him a handwritten note with the name and number of the best curtain person in all of Seattle on it. I decide not to mention that to Marcus because he gives me the faintest of smiles and says, “We can watch the rest of the game if you really want to.”
I rest my head on the back of the sofa and settle in. Watching the game without fast-forwarding at all is a different experience entirely. I realize immediately that I’ve been missing out on so much. When Ben’s not playing, he’s on the bench with the rest of his teammates. He’s the captain of the Blackeyes, which means he’s like the main man of the whole team, so while he’s on the bench, he talks to the other players, telling them what their plan of attack should be and what he wants them to do next. Not in a dickhead way, but in anI want you to succeed, and here’s how you do itway. It’s hot.
When he first gets to the bench and takes a seat, he’s breathing harder than normal from exerting himself on the ice. He has his helmet on and his hair is damp with sweat. I know that because tiny locks peek out at the back of his neck and curl up. He rests his stick against one leg, with his legs splayed open. He smiles and nods when he talks to his teammates, taking the time to make each one feel seen. Their responses are always the same.
“Yes, Captain!”
“On it, Captain!”
“Got it, Captain!”
There’s something about the way they say it that gets me. Something grateful. Something that looks almost like relief. Like rightness. Correctness. Like they know they don’t need to worry because there’s someone in charge who knows more than they do. Someone they can trust. Someone they look up to.
I’ve met enough self-proclaimed alpha men in my time that the mere thought of those two words in proximity to each other makes me feel unwell. That’s not what Ben is. He isn’t self-proclaimed. He’s a rare case. A true case. A man who stands apart from other men because that’s how he was born. A man who stands head and shoulders above other men, not because he put himself there but because they put him there. Because they wanted him to lead, and they wanted to follow.
On the screen, the game stops for intermission. That’s when all the players go off the ice and head to the locker rooms to shower together and have a little towel-flicking fight or something like that. It’s a way of boosting morale and increasing team spirit.
Hmm, mind you, maybe not. Intermission is only eighteen minutes, so they probably don’t have time for all that. They probably save boosting morale and increasing team spirit for after the game.
When the players come out for the start of the third period, I take the scatter cushion from behind my back and place it over my lap. History has taught me this is the best way for me to watch this part of hockey when I’m with others.
Ben has his stick and one of his gloves in one hand and his water bottle in the other. As he glides onto the ice, he raises the bottle to his lips. He tilts his head back and sprays water into his mouth without touching the spout. A steady stream of liquid leaves the bottle and enters his body. He swallows at leisure. His Adam’s apple works slowly—visible protrusion moving up his throat, bobbing, and then gliding down again. When he’s swallowed his last sip, he rights his head, adjusting his posture so he’s leaning slightly forward. He cracks a smile that reaches through the screen, takes me firmly by the balls, and squeezes hard. He closes his eyes, spraying a little spritz of water on his face. He laughs and shakes his head from side to side as he does it.
It’s a lot.
He’s not done though. Not even close.
He raises his right hand, the one without the glove, and swipes a thick palm and long fingers over his face. Forehead to chin.
The camera work ison point. It really is. The cameraman knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t miss a thing. He’s following Ben’s every movement, zoomed in so close I can see each individual lash knit together when he blinks.
Ben is still smiling, but the smile is different now. It’s changed. It’s almost menacing. Almost threatening. He hands his water bottle to a teammate on the bench and looks at the goal the same way he looks at the opposing center during a face-off. His eyes are open but narrowed. His gaze is fixed on the net as he commits the size, shape, and placement of the rectangular steel frame around it to memory.
When he’s done, he chuckles softly. Then he flicks his fingers at the goal. It’s a decisive action that sends a million tiny crystalline droplets into the air.
