I’m not sure exactly what he needed, but I nod. I slap my stick against his, giving him a little of my good mojo—not all of it because I need it for myself—but definitely some. He gives me a grin and I skate off.
Two more attempts on goal are made against us, but Felton is there. One he slaps away with his stick and the other he catches in a rather impressive show of reflexes.
Then we’re ushered off the ice for the first intermission. While I know these intermissions are for our health and give us time to catch our breath, it also allows us to get stuck in our heads. It makes our bodies cool down. It gives us time to become discouraged and disgruntled, pointing sticks at everyone who needs to up their game.
I’m thankful no one points theirs at Felton. He’s in an interesting mood. I didn’t pay much attention to him before the game, so I’m not completely sure that it’s the game that sent him into a funk. If I were a betting man, I’d say that it was something that had nothing to do with the game and he showed up to the rink that way.
Whatever it is, he seems to be out of it now. He’s not his normal loud and rowdy self, but there aren’t storm clouds in his eyes right now. He’s smiling as he talks to Willits and Dasan. That’s something.
I pay a lot of attention to my teammates. Their mental mindsets dictate their game and watching them gives me an idea of what kind of game play we’re going to have when they’re on the ice. It tells me whether I need to be more aggressive when protecting the defensive zone or if they’re going to be big fighters in that game.
Our team is pretty mellow as far as teams go. We jive reasonably well on and off the ice. We’re not all necessarily friends, but as far as I can tell, there’s no tension or bad feelings or bitterness. The only competition is what’s requiredof ourselves, knowing that at any time, even our teammates can take our place.
But we play well together. Celebrate each other’s wins and accomplishments. We also came together in a time of tragedy when a teammate lost his brother in a helicopter accident at the end of last season. It was rough on him, which was to be expected.
I’m not insanely close with my brother, but I’d be devastated if he’d died like that. Hell, if he died at all.
The second period is filled with what feels like more penalties than actual game time. I’ll say that at least the penalties are spread out between us and Anaheim. Even their captain, Hollinger Kearney, is in the sin bin more than once. Looking furious at the call but silent as he sits and waits, sipping on the water bottle that’s in there.
Neither team scores. There’s a fight between Anaheim’s Imonovich and Zenia that probably didn’t need to happen right in the last few seconds, which will carry over into the next period. Zenia is still fuming over it when we get into the locker room.
“Let it go, mate,” Denny says as he takes a seat on the bench. He’s sweaty when he takes his helmet off. We all are. “It’s a double penalty, so we’re both down to start. No power play. We’re fine.”
“It’s fucking stupid. That damn Russian is quick to fight over nothing,” he says, scowling at the floor.
“Your American temper is just as quick,” Marion says. He has such a quiet, smooth Greek accent that causes the entire room to hush when he speaks so they can listen. It has a strange calming effect that makes me smile.
“That trip was an accident,” Zenia says. “I even fucking apologized just after!”
“Game is game,” Denny says. “Let it go.”
Zenia scowls as he falls to the bench and brushes his hair back with his hand. He meets my eyes, lips pursed. I shrug, offering no opinion.
Fighting is part of the game. The best thing to do is simply walk away. Which he did. His penalty was for tripping.
I glance at Felton, finding him leaning back into his cubby with his eyes closed. He’s bouncing his stick back and forth, hitting the tops of his skates. I don’t think much of it at first except that I realize his eyes are closed. Like, truly closed. He’s just hitting his feet, mentally knowing exactly where his limbs are in space without having to look for hand-eye coordination.
Fucking goalies, man.
We return to the ice and the last period is much faster paced. The puck is probably going to be bruised by the way it’s being hit. Because Anaheim is playing more aggressively, I keep my position close to the net, only going so far as the first blue line, making myself a second barrier before Felton is required to truly defend.
It’s not always an effective way to play since it makes pairing up uneven at the other end. But with their ridiculous shot attempts and Felton’s mood at the beginning of the game, combined with their amped up playing style now, I think it’s probably a good idea.
The puck comes flying back this way, but before it gets too close, the linesman blows the whistle and it’s called for icing.
Imonovich parks himself next to me, setting his stick on the ice in front of mine. I let him. Because I’m a couple feet outside of Felton’s zone, I can back up when I need to and get out from behind him.
The puck drops and I slide backwards, before shoving around Imonovich and grabbing the puck to bring to behind the net. The teams back away and I toss it toward Dasan. He catchesit but loses it when Minden steals it back and makes a long shot on goal. I shift, but Imonovich is in my way.
Felton is back on his game though because he blocks it. While the puck is back in motion, one of Anaheim’s forwards slides into Felton’s blue zone and starts slapping Felton’s stick. He shoves it at Felton, who grabs it and doesn’t let it go.
The whistle blows, but not before I break away and barrel into the asshole harassing our goalie. I’m not often a fighter. There’s never any trash talk on my end. There are those in the league on different teams who think I don’t even speak English since I never lower myself to their bait.
But I’m feeling protective tonight, especially considering Felton’s mood earlier. I’m joined a minute later by Willits and Dasan and then all the players on the ice collide as the refs try to break it up.
So much of hockey is a mental game. Goaltending seems to be a different mental state entirely. So intentionally messing with a goalie is really fucking low. It’s dirty playing. Anaheim is so worried about their inability to get the puck in the goal that they have to drop to dirty plays.
The fight splits and the dick who I’m not familiar with gets ushered to the sin bin, leaving us in a power play. We’re at Anaheim, so the crowd is unhappy right now. Fuck all of them.
