There’s a huddle against the boards that I’m not a part of. I stay back, closer to the blue line and watch, ready for the puck should it come this way. It doesn’t, but the stick it hits outside of the huddle sends it toward me. Likely not intentionally since I’m pretty sure that was Columbus. Maybe they mistook my uniform for their home colors. Are the Sails blue?
Either way, I spin around and bring the puck to the other side of the ice as quickly as I can. Their defensemen are already there, one standing by their goal and the other coming for me. I stop, digging my blades into the ice, and adjust abruptly.
I don’t manage to get around him, but I can’t ditch the puck right now since I’m surrounded by Columbus. As they close in, I push the puck away.
Columbus moves away from me to follow the puck. I adjust my position. Someone in a heavy Russian accent says, “Fuck you.” I’m not sure who they’re talking to or even who’s talking. Chicago is filled with Canadians and Americans. We have one other nationality and it’s our Swedish goalie, Patrik.
The response I hear is ‘va chier’which makes me grin. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s Canada-speak for fuck off, even though that’s not the actual translation.
Columbus’ defenseman adjusts himself to block me, so I move around him. Just as I do, the puck is loose and coming straight to my stick. I wind back and hit it hard. This time, it’sheading for their goalie’s glove, but something happens. Maybe a strong wind shoves the puck lower, or the goalie mistook where the puck was headed.
It whooshes by him, right below his glove, and sinks into the net. The goalie, irritated, hits the bar with his stick as he rights himself on his skates, shoving his mask up and turning his back on the ice.
I glance up at the clock. Less than three minutes left in the game. 4-2. Hell, at least we’re on the board, right?
Once again, my team surrounds me. Like a switch is flipped, the noise in the arena cranks and I hear the crowd once more.
“On fire,” Jimmy says.
With a smile, I think I’m going to head for the bench. I’m not sure what stops me. Instead, I line back up for puck drop and the world around me fades once more.
The puck comes at me, and I head immediately for their goal. It would be unlikely that we can tie it up this late in the game, coming back from zero, but I sure as fuck am going to try. Columbus’ number eighteen comes up on my right and shoves his stick against mine to take the puck. When he pulls it back, he hits my skate and I nearly take a face plant as he skates away with the puck.
A hand yanks me upright. Without looking, I charge after eighteen and barrel into him like a bull, slamming him against the wall.
The whistle blows and I’m sent to the bin for two minutes. Unnecessary roughness. Bullshit. Without comment, I head for the sin bin and take my seat. Just what we need to freeze our momentum in its tracks. Giving Columbus a power play with less than three minutes to spare.
I should have gotten off the ice after the last goal. There will be forty-five seconds left when we’re back up to full strength. That’s it.
The game carries on around me. As I spray water into my mouth from the bottle in the sin bin, I alternate between watching the clock and the game. As I anticipated, Chicago is now waiting to fail and we let in another goal.
I shake my head and stop watching the game, choosing to stare at the clock instead. As soon as my time is up, I skate to my bench and Carter takes my place on the ice.
Coach Taylor Morris’ hand lands on my shoulder, though he doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure if that’s praise for my earlier goals, a reprimand for my penalty, or maybe a gesture of understanding why I hit eighteen like I did. Doesn’t matter. I remain with my ass firmly seated on the bench for the last forty-five seconds.
We lose 5-2.
The team is quiet as we make our way through the locker room. Coach mentions my goals and tells us we’ll review the game tomorrow at practice. I don’t speak to anyone as I strip down and head for the hot water.
More than anything, I want to get home. As I stand under the water, I close my eyes and think about Arush standing at the door waiting for me. I wonder what he does while I’m at hockey. It must be rough on him that he can’t talk to his friends as often as he once did. Eleven-hours difference is half a damn day.
I’m not sure how to make him less lonely when I’m gone. I wonder if he’s lonely while I’m home, too? Do I take his mind off missing his family and friends? Can I do better? I probably could.
Unlike Arizona, when I get back to the locker room, there isn’t a lot of chatter. It’s as if the team isn’t friends at all. We’re colleagues. We work together. We don’t have friendships outside of that.
Is that the better way to play the game or is that part of why we just don’t gel together on the ice? Hockey, like so manysports, is also a mental game. So does it somehow play into our disconnect that we’re not friends?
Doesn’t matter right now. All I want to do is go home.
Carter claps my arm on the way out, offering me a big smile. I think if I were to be friends with anyone on the team, it’d probably be Carter. He’s good people. He’ll also carry on a whole conversation while I just listen. I appreciate that some days.
As I’m pocketing my phone, I see that there are a couple messages in my family group chat. I grin and open it.
Mama
Look at my baby go! Nice goal.
Gramps
