Page 60 of Breakaway Heart
“What are they waving? Are those…”
I heard Kensy’s voice, but my eyes were only staring wide-eyed at the wiggling objects being held up by the supporters in the away stand. A sea of dildos were being gleefully waved at Randy, mocking him after the recent pictures that had come out.
As if that wasn’t enough, Kensy pointed out a figure up in one of the boxes, glamorously leaning over the glass.
“Georgia,” she told me, pulling a face.
“Oh, hell.”
“Who wears sunglasses inside, anyway?” Kensy said dismissively.
I knew she was being kind, as I’d already seen her do that very same thing at the practice session. But it really seemed like riling up Randy was a big focus of the night, and I worried how this might all play out for him.
When the game began, it was as if the teams were on a battlefield, the hits coming in hard, wild, and uncontrolled, each player chirping and unsettling their opposite number, the penalty box hardly vacant. On the ice, it was two heavyweight boxers who were slugging it out in the final round, throwing everything they had at each other. This wasn’t just about hockey, it was personal.
The crowd were on their feet, howling in outrage at every steal, every bodycheck, every loose pass. No one more than Kensy, though. When the Ice-Hawks goaltender was flattened in a scramble around the net, it seemed like she was ready to go down there to beat those responsible around the ears.
“Youdaretouch him again, Feder!” She howled, with the support of twenty thousand outraged Ice-Hawks fans with her.
Randy, for his part, was trying to keep his head down and his cool out on the ice, despite facing a sea of jeering dildos in a multitude of sizes and colors, and a wave of constant chirping from the opposition. It was clear he was feeling the pressure and on the edge of keeping it together. He wasn’t playing badly exactly, but no one had been able to settle into the game. It was all blood and thunder, and the hockey was almost a sideshow.
The increasingly agitated crowd were silenced around the fourteen-minute mark, when Randy slipped on his own blue line. Ray Easton picked up the loose puck and, at the second attempt, put it past Janek on the rebound to give the Wranglers the lead. The away supporters burst into life,waving their dildos and dancing in exuberant delight, while Randy looked down at the ice, willing it to swallow him up.
“C’mon, Randy,” I muttered under my breath.
A few rows down, a familiar face shuffled along the row to take his seat. Frank Jackson saw me and gave a small and uncertain wave in recognition. I nodded my approval to him in return. So, he had come.
An uncertain feeling soured my stomach as I wondered if that was a good or bad thing. While he was down there on the ice, all we could do was watch. Me, Frank, Georgia. All there watching Randy, all with different hopes for how it would turn out.
The first period ended with Easton cross-checking Randy from behind, and an angry scuffle broke out, both players dropping their gloves and trading furious blows. Hayden Raynor quickly came in to intervene, pinning Easton up against the boards, before Randy and Easton were given 5-minute penalties. The dildos in the crowd once again wiggled wildly in their enthusiasm as Randy skated to the penalty box, then toward the tunnel when the buzzer came, trading angry words and gestures with Easton across the ice.
It was all breathless and nerve-wracking. As I tried to calm my nerves, finally someone I did want to see came bustling down the row, knocking every knee and spilling beer on them on her way, while bellowing “Sorry, sorry, excuse me!”.
“Hannah!” We embraced.
“Luce! What’s with all the screwnicorns?” She flashed a look at the stand of dildo-wielding Wranglers fans.
“You mean the pussy plungers?” Kensy said.
“Yeah, the eleventh finger mock cocks.”
I gave Hannah a look, and the answer dawned on her.
“Honestly, I thought I’d come to the wrong party for a moment,” she said.
The second period saw the Ice-Hawks finally get down to some hockey and start stretching the game, only for the pipes and Karlsson in the opposition net to deny them, time and time again. Randy and Hayden cut frustrated figures at every lost chance, the minutes ticking away. Then the arena held its collective breath as a breakaway for the Wranglers left the ice-Hawks exposed. I could hardly watch as the net rippled to leave them two down.
Randy shattered his stick down on the ice, and I closed my eyes, wishing it would go differently. He took a rueful look up into our stand, where the players’ friends and family were. As the crowd quietly cursed or held their heads in their hands, Hannah stood up next to me.
“Go get ‘em, Randy!” She yelled.
Kensy stood too and joined in, “C’mon, Randy! Hayden! Dan! Hudson! Let’s go!”
A few people around us picked up on the energy and began to get to their feet to join in, yelling their encouragement. Soon those few voices spread through the crowd, more and more rising to the call, the noise becoming deafening, until finally the whole arena was on its feet and the place was suddenly rocking.
The end of the second period came, and the applause seemed to shake off the walls. Even in defeat, they were our team, our heroes, and the battle wasn’t over yet. No one left at the interval, instead we remained on our feet together, cheering until our throats hurt with everything we had.
“This is even better than ladies’ night at the Bowl-o-rama,” Hannah told me, gleefully clapping along with the crowd.
