Seventeen
Ezra
Today’s game is as important as the playoffs themselves.
For over a decade, there has been bad blood between the Boston Bandits and the New York Falcons. Each team striving to be the best.
The two teams have the highest and equal number of Stanley Cup wins. So, the teams are eager to make it to the playoffs and sabotage any chances of the other team making it.
That means the Falcons will not play fair and will step on the ice with the intention to kill. It’sbound to be a brutal game. But I’m not worried, knowing that we’ll obliterate them and all their attempts at taking what’s ours.
As the captain, I’ve got to lead our team to success with a great example and take complete advantage of being on home barn.
My teammates are all in the locker room, quietly waiting to be called out to play as they carry on their ritual or superstitious practices. It’s no secret that players and athletes are some of the most superstitious bunch.
I’m no different as I cover my stick with the black tape with precision and focus. Then ritualistically, I tie the laces of my left skate before my right one. The sight of the skates reminds me of her, and I shake my head and do well to rid myself of all thoughts of her and her pouty lips and siren eyes. Today’s a very important game, and I can’t afford any distractions.
Yet the moment I step on ice, my eyes impulsively flicker to Kaeli standing by the glass. The sight of her blood-drained, pale face does something to the organ inside my rib cage. It screams for the blood of the perpetrator who put that foreign expression on her face. I follow hereyes and find no one who could be the reason behind such a visceral reaction from her.
I ask her if she’s okay, and she nods. I don’t believe her for a second. I can see her body visibly trembling like a fallen leaf, even from here. But before I can demand some answers from her, I have a game to win. This will have to wait.
Skating to stand with all my linemates and take my position as a winger, I put all my focus on defeating the Falcons. Just before the puck drop, as the lights of the arena dim to a glow of red akin to blood, that’s when I hear the Pulse. It doesn’t happen every game, but on the most important ones. One can’t forget that the fans are even more superstitious than the players. The fans of the Boston Bandits make the arena quake under their feet.
The entire crowd pounds once on their chest, then claps once in unison, simultaneously tapping their feet, over and over, slowly, like a heartbeat. The rhythm beats in tandem with that of our hearts, starting slow and building in speed with the growing anticipation and adrenaline until the puck drops.
The sound echoes in the arena like a drumline, primal and loud. It’s not just a ritual orsuperstitious practice. It’s a full-body, emotional, and powerful experience–a war cry by thousands, but intimate.
It represents the pulse of the city and the game that beats as one. It fuels us more than any drug could ever do. It powers us, demands us to win the fucking game. And that’s exactly what we do the moment the puck drops.
Noah earns a shutout, and we gain a W with an astounding score of 5-0. I score four out of five goals and assist in the fifth.
Today, there was a fire raging inside my heart, and it desperately wanted to burn somebody. And even though I know the cause of that inferno, I don’t wish to dwell on it, refusing to let myself accept what I already know deep in my heart.
The crowd roars and hazes the Falcons as they look like they could murder people. It was their first loss of the season with such a score. I bet it hurts.
Before we leave the ice, Cillian O’Neill, the center for the New York Falcons, skates up to me. “Enjoy the win while it lasts, Moore. And I’d advise you to watch your back,” he spits, only for me to hear.
He was once my best friend, now just a stranger who hates my guts. He may not have been in the locker room that day in college all those years ago, but he knew what she had been doing behind my back. Yet, not once did he come to me and warn me.
The feeling is mutual, though. Before I can give him a retort, he’s off the ice. Fucking coward.
I don’t let his words ruin my mood, blowing out a huge breath before I enter the locker room.
The sight inside is what you’d expect from a bunch of rowdy players who just had a mind-blowing game and defeated their rival. The boys are in various stages of undress as they scream the room down. Patting Noah and me on the back.
Coach enters and leaves with the slightest tilt of his lips and a nod. And the moment he’s gone, the boys howl in happiness, because that reaction out of Coach is equivalent to winning the playoffs.
Seeing the enthusiasm and adrenaline rushing through the guys, I propose, “Drinks on me!”
“Love you, Cap!” the guys yell, joy rollingoff them in waves.
* * *
Half an hour later, I find myself in The Tap, a bar in downtown Boston.
We often ditch high-end clubs and come to this sports bar to keep our privacy from over-eager fans. I hate being surrounded by people. What I hate even more is being surrounded by people I don’t know the first thing about, even if they’re our fans.
Scott, the middle-aged owner of this bar, knows the score, and he doesn’t let anyone else in on the days we visit.
