Maybe he’s having trouble at home? But then, I don’t think he’s involved with someone. It’s not that we all announce relationships or anything, but Felton is one of the leagues’ ‘token gay men,’ so the world tends to know when they get involved with someone. As far as I can recall, there’s been nothing on social media. Not the most reliable source ofaccurateinformation, but they generally have the news first—true or false.
I remind myself that he’s not my responsibility. Whatever’s going on with him, unless he’s asking for help, it’s not my job to worry. So I turn my attention back to my food.
FOUR
FELTON
The puck comes whizzingat me, and I end up in a split as I reach for it. The satisfyingthwackas it slams into my glove has me almost grinning.
L.A. is a lot less hostile than our game against Anaheim two days ago. They get denied their shot and turn around to return to center ice for the puck drop. There aren’t any tantrums or hits with their sticks.
The ref takes the puck from my glove as the players shift. I’m still on my knees, so I scootch some of the snow dust into a gouge within my crease and then rub my pad over it to smooth it out. I need it roughed up, but those deeper slits can trip you up. As I remodel the ice under me, I watch as the teams switch out and line back up to get ready.
Eventually, I stand and ready myself in front of the goal. I should have taken a sip of water while there was this pause. Meh. I’m fine. Next time.
We’ve been stuck at 4-3 since the second half of the second period. There’s six minutes left in the game now. A lot can happen in that time but I’m feeling confident. We’re playing well, cohesively. Right on, tonight.
The puck drops and Emmons grabs it. He’s a selfish player, but he tosses it away when Willits and Ren block him in. My friend Noah Kain has the puck as he digs his blades in and heads for me. I grin, even though he’s not looking at me as I wiggle back and forth a bit.
Just outside my crease, he passes it to Hector Atlas, who is much more aerodynamic now. Atlas makes a shot that skims off my gloves. I dive and throw my stick behind me. The momentum of the puck has it bouncing off my stick and dropping to the ground just to my right.
Putting my head down, I scramble to cover it with my body and the whistle blows. Looking up, I find Noah rolling his eyes as he moves away, a smirk on his pretty lips. I grin again and pull myself up. Good news—no new gouges in my ice. They really irritate me.
Scooping up the puck in my glove, I get to my feet and set it on the top of the net as I push my helmet back and reach for the bottle. As I’m squirting the liquid into my mouth, a ref pulls the puck from my net.
“Nice save,” he says and skates off.
I like that ref. I think his name is Fallon. He’s neutral and pretty unbiased as far as refs go. At least, in my opinion. He’s also kind and offers nice words as he grabs the puck from me. I wonder if he does that to other goalies too.
The last time I played a game where Fallon was the ref, he literally jumped on top of the goalie net for a better view of the scuffle within the crease, making damn sure he would make the correct call and could see if that puck crossed the red line. It was at the other end of the arena, but I was impressed all the same.
He’s a good guy. Well, he appears to be a good guy. What do I really know, though? It’s not like I’ve ever seen or spoken to him off the ice. Would I even recognize him without his helmet and stripes?
Then again, heisa ref. That’s already several points against him as far as fans and teams are concerned. I’m not even sure coaches appreciate the refs.
I get it. It’s their job to call penalties. The thing is, only about half of them are worth calling and the other half are shit. Then there’s an entire half that they don’t call at all that should be called. Yes, that’s three halves, but I stand by what I said. And there are some refs that absolutely have to play favorites.
When that happens, there are a lot of unnecessary calls because I think the other ref and linesmen try to make up for their obvious stupidity.
The puck goes back into play, but it barely comes down here for the rest of the game. We don’t pull off another score, but our team keeps it in L.A.’s zone. When the buzzer signals the end of the game, I straighten up and push my helmet back on my head.
It’s so hot in here. Gah! I’m sweating.
I take a drink of my water as I head for the chute. Noah catches up, wrapping an arm around my big goalie pads. He grins.
“You lose hot stuff,” I say, smirking.
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Cock Sucker. We on for dinner?”
“Can we do breakfast instead? I kind of want to sit in the hot tub for the rest of the night. That split I did needs attention.”
Noah laughs. “Yeah, sure. Mind if Hector and Egon join us? Maybe Lix?”
“You going to bully me with your whole posse, Kain?”
“Your ego is so big, it needs four of us to fight against it. Especially when your team wins,” he counters. I laugh. “Actually, Lix would like to catch up. I’m trying to drag Egon out more and Hector has his first Gays Can Play event coming up, and he’s a bit nervous, so I thought introducing him to the crew bit by bit as we play them will help ease his nerves a little.”
“Ah. You’ve got a lot of gay boys in L.A., Kain. What’s in the water?”
