Page 58 of Overtime
Bodies slam into mine, and I don’t see. I don’t reason. The shouting around me is a buzz. I struggle against hands, sticks, my own pads.
“Calm down!” someone yells in my ear. “Stay calm, man.”
“Ref, number four said racist shit against our goalie!”
“Shouldn’t that get him suspended?”
I shake my head. Hard. My mouth guard rattles against the cage of my mask. My knuckles are already bruising.
Someone jostles me, and I scope out the situation more clearly now. Bracken slashes one hand across the air as he talks with the ref and a linesman. The benches cleared, but thankfully this didn’t turn into a fender bender.
Amadi gets in my grill. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah,” I rasp out.
I pull up my mask without removing it all the way and spray water in my mouth and on my face. As if I have a built-in radar for her like I have for pucks, I spot Strawberry in one shot. Her hands are on her mouth as she watches me. Or the melee near my goal. I hate that this is the first game she’s come to watch. And I hate that she came with that little sucker who was almost my tutor. Forgot his name the second he couldn’t get mine right.
I tighten my jaw so hard I jam the mouth guard back in so I don’t break the chiclets.
Because I’m the Bolts’ captain, the ref delivers the verdict to me. A minor for me—that the Falcon captain has chosen Webber to serve in the bin, because of freaking course; take our best defenseman, why don’t you—and a major and misconduct for Falcon number 4.
Doesn’t matter. We’re still on a PK.
The game devolves into dirtier play during the last seconds of the period. I manage to catch all the shots out of spite alone. But when the whistle blows and I join everyone filing off the ice, I can’t even keep my head up.
“What the heck is wrong you bunch of toddlers?” Coach Green screams once we’re in the locker room. “Especially you, captain!”
I toss my helmet on the floor and run my hands down my face. “I’m sorry. I know I’m screwing up the game.”
Coach chokes a little. Silence takes over the locker room.
Saying that felt like a hand reached into my mouth and ripped out a lung or something. But it’s true. My head hasn’t been in the game from the beginning.
All it took was a turn around the ice before the game and seeing Strawberry sitting all cozy next to some guy. We haven’t talked much since I taught her how to skate, outside of tutoring sessions. I didn’t even know she was coming tonight. I’d have appreciated a heads-up. That way I wouldn’t have kept glancing at her to see if her attention was on the game or on her date.
I’m a clown today, and I know it.
Before Coach or anyone else can say anything, I get up and wade across the room, past Assistant Coach Thomas and over to the bathroom. Stopping before the first shower stall, I turn the knob to the coldest setting and stick my head under the spray. My whole body locks under the assault. I stay put because this punishment is exactly what I need to clear my head.
“Dude,” Archie says from behind me. “What’s going on with you?”
I wish I knew.
No, I know why I’ve been dialed all the way up to an eight. And I have no right to feel that way. I pull away from the shower and turn it off. My heavy breathing echoes around the room.
“Talk to me, Rodriguez.”
I shake my head, spraying water around like a dog.
“Is it serious, at least?” he asks, frustration evident in his voice. “Because if you’re injured or something, I’ll get Coach to pull you.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Then say something, you knucklehead! This isn’t like you at all. We’re worried.”
“I won’t let it affect the third period.”
He frowns. “So thereissomething.”
