Page 61 of Flagrant Foul
Sev Delorean
It’sashitshowof a game. We’re in Dallas, and we’ve been one goal down since the first period. We’re scrambling, running out of time, and making mistakes. It reminds me of games I played in high school, scrappy and messy, with players on the same team yelling instructions at each other. Coach isn’t happy. His eyes are bulging from the sidelines, and Bryce is nowhere. I love the man, but I’ve never seen him so distracted.
In fairness, I’m distracted too.
Teddy’s in goal with some of the best players in the league taking direct shots at him. Who invented this stupid fucking game anyway? Where were the moms? Where were the people with common sense, the ones who stopped and said,Hmm, you know what? I don’t think having a bunch of elite athletes shoot a small, vulcanized rubber disk at one player for an hour is a good idea.
Where the hell were they?
Actually, come to think of it, where the hell was Nate when Teddy decided to become a goalie?
What happened toI can’t let anyone hurt him?
Teddy’s fearless on the ice, which makes it impossible for me to relax. He plays with no consideration for the limitations of his body. No consideration for the fact that he could get hurt. He throws himself in front of the puck like he has no idea he’s made of skin and bone. Muscle and nerves.
Soft flesh and blood I can’t bear to see spilled.
Our shift ends, and I slump onto the bench, spraying glug after glug of water into my mouth. It does nothing to quench my thirst. I try not to watch Teddy more intently than I would any other teammate, but right now, I’m really struggling to remember how much that is.
The thing is, he’s an entertaining player. He always has been. He’s known for his focus—eagle-eyed and unstoppable during play, in his own world when it ends.
We break for the last TV timeout of the game, and “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor begins to play. The decisive, driving beat of drums and bass fills the arena.
Teddy loves this song.
He skates three tight rings around the goal and checks various sections of the net before scuffing the ice near thegoal with his skates. He does each of those things three times as well.
He likes it when things happen in threes.
Needs it.
It’s hard not to think about other things he likes in threes.
Or that he can’t sleep without them.
I take another sip of water to steady myself as the song builds to the chorus.
Maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe he won’t do it tonight. Maybe he’ll forget.
Of course he doesn’t. He’s a creature of habit, and when I asked him once, years ago, why he does this, he snarled, “’Cause I feel the music in my hips. What’s it to you, dipshit?”
It shouldn’t be attractive when he dances. God only knows that no one should be able to make a goalie helmet and protective gear sexy.
Yet here we are.
The crowd is watching and waiting. His face fills the Jumbotron. Sixty feet worth of icy blue eyes, a neat, straight nose, and the most luscious lips I’ve ever seen. It’s too much.
The crowd starts cheering the second his head begins to bob in time with the music. The camera zooms out, painting a backdrop of ice and blurred spectators.
His hips begin to move. Thousands of people clamber to their feet and dance with him. He plants the handle of his stick on the ice and spins the hook with a little flourish, catching it and tilting it down as though it’s a mic, singing passionately about tigers and eyes and God knows what else until I’m pretty sure my lower body has melted and dissolved into the bench I’m sitting on.
My mind is scrambled.
We’re back on the ice for less than five minutes when Lewis goes down. He takes a hit that doesn’t look that bad, but his knee bends at an awkward angle and he pulls up immediately, cursing and trying not to cry out.
“Fuck! I heard a pop. Get the medics,” he groans.
Lewis has had a niggling MCL issue for the last couple of years, and the second I see him, I know it’s bad. He’s our alternate captain, and even though he hasn’t had the best season so far, he’s one of those players a team needs. In my mind, I think of players like him as ribs. An inflexible cage that provides order. Players who are necessary, not only on the ice, but for the overall well-being of the team. An integral part of its structure.
