Page 97 of The Legend Next Door
It’s the wrong thing to say as it leaves Sev incredulous, and an incredulous Sev is an unreasonable Sev.
“Of course I’m the boss of you. I’ve known you since you were nine, and I’ve got you out of more shit than anyone else ever has.” Sev preens, giving him a big, pleased-with-himself grin. “If that doesn’t make me the boss of you, what does?”
T-Dog, always quick to anger, is far from amused but manages not to fly off the handle. Just.
“Bullshit,” he mutters. “You’ve got me in more shit than anyone else ever has.”
I’ve often wondered about the dynamic between them. The tone of their bickering points to a remnant from childhood. As I understand it, they grew up together. T-Dog once mentioned that Sev is his older brother’s best friend. Apparently, Sev and the brother are thick as thieves to this day. Makes sense, I guess, because when these two aren’t almost coming to blows, Sev treats T-Dog like a kid who needs help tying his laces.
I’m the first one ready, as always. I get to my feet, and one by one, players start making their way to me. I’m jostled by fist bumps and chest hugs and the light crash of helmets tapped against mine.
The mood is charged. Adrenaline pumping. Banter and chirps fly over my head, but inside, I’m going still. I’m drawing into myself. Into my mind. Into my body. I have one glove on and the other in my hand. My helmet is on.
There’s a low rumble shaking the foundation of the arena. A soft hiss of the ice saying my name.
“You ready for this?” Bryce asks as he holds the locker room door open for me. There’s a faint flicker in his eyes. Concern or excitement? Concern and excitement, maybe. It’s the only tell he gives me, the only inkling that this walk to the rink will be any different from any of the hundreds that came before it.
It gives me a second to prepare.
It’s a second I need badly because as I cross the threshold, I’m met by a sea of faces. Faces I know. Faces that mean something to me. Faces of teammates from years past. Years and years past. Many belong to people I’m still in touch with, and some I’ve lost contact with. Every face I see is significant though. All of them played a part in my story.
The faces, the people who’ve come to see me off, line both sides of the corridor, the turn that leads to the tunnel, and the tunnel as well. Each player I pass has a stick in their hand, and as I move through the throng, I notice the stick they’re holding bears the colors of the team we played for together. Most sticks are full-sized, but some range all the way down to the size Luca currently plays with.
As soon as I move past them, players begin drumming their sticks on the floor in a steady, heady rhythm.
My heart hears it and quickly begins using it as a metronome.
I spot team owners and managers in the fray and stop briefly to greet them. There are past coaches and even team medics here too. I laugh as I embrace a rehabilitation coordinator I haven’t seen since my college days. She’s built like Tinkerbell, but she used to make me squeal like a little bird on her table.
I stop and acknowledge as many people as I can, but I don’t stay long. I can’t. The ice is calling to me. Not just the ice but the crowd too.
Stir-ling
Stir-ling.
It started as a gentle bay, a soft, seductive call.
Now, it’s a roar.
A thunderous chant.
When I reach the mouth of the tunnel, my eyes sting as I take in the two men waiting for me. Dave Landry, the last man who ever coached me, the man who stood with me at Liz’s hospital bedside and at her graveside, stands with Allistair Goodwin, my first coach, the man who taught me how to hold a stick. I embrace Landry briefly and thank him for everything he’s done to get me here today, purposefully keeping it short as I know I’ll see him during and after the game, and turn my attention to Coach Alli, as we used to call him.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, decades in fact, and the years show on his face. There are lines around his eyes and mouth that weren’t there before, and yeah, I’ll bet a few of those lines were earned by yelling at kids to do better and try harder. But most of them, the vast majority, were earned by caring, not only if games were lost or won, but caring that every kid who came through his team left better than they were when they joined it.
“D’you remember what I always used to tell you?” he asks.
I nod, and when it becomes clear he expects me to tell him, I say, “You said if I worked really hard, I could end up being the best player you ever coached, Coach.”
He gives me a wry smile, and his eyes grow misty. “You must have worked really fucking hard, kiddo.” Emotion rises suddenly and almost gets the better of me, but as always, Coach Alli has me. He grabs hold of me, pulls me into a hug, and whispers, “You’ve got this, Ben. You hear me. You’ve got this. Go out there and give ’em hell.”
It’s not just his words that have meaning to me. It’s the way he says them. It takes me back in time to the very beginning, to the early days, to the wobbly legs, to the wins and losses, to the orange slices our moms brought to our games. It stirs all that up, lets it settle, and spits me back out again.
When he releases me, I give a sharp nod to show I heard him and step back a couple of paces before turning to face the ice.
My blade covers are off and I’m aware of the delicate weight, the perfect balance, of the stick in my hand. My team stands behind me in silence. The phantoms of hands clapping my shoulders and back still echo through me. I feel it all, all their touches, all their well-wishes, but most of all, I feel the tight circle of Luca’s arms around my neck as he wished me good luck earlier and the warm stamp of Jeremiah’s lips against mine.
The ice stretches out before me, a powdery sheet of pure white. I take a long, deep breath and let myself feel it. The crowd, the lights, the nerves, the excitement.
