RESILIENCE ON ICE
Sometimes, in the middle of the second period, you take a puck straight to the face and realize, in the split second before your vision goes red, that the only thing you’re really good at is getting up again.
It starts the way these things always do, I’m at the crease, battling for scraps with a guy who could pass for an actual refrigerator, elbows up, stick between my legs, both of us too desperate or too stupid to let the play go dead.
We’re down two and there are fifteen games to go so all the bullshit about “playing for love of the game” is long gone, this is personal, this is about not being the fuck-up who gets cut again in May.
I catch the slapshot, see it, if I’m honest, a split-second before it happens, but instinct makes me turn my head, which means the puck doesn’t shatter my teeth, just rips a new line across my cheekbone, right above the shield.
It’s the sweet spot, too low for the helmet, too high for the mouthguard. Smart. Textbook.
There’s a noise, a little pop, and for half a second nothing registers except the sound of my own blood hitting the ice like someone’s dropped a handful of loose change.
Then the pain catches up and my entire head is nothing but white, white noise, white light, white-hot and expanding behind my eyes until I can’t see anything but my own hands grabbing at the boards.
I hear the whistle.
I hear the crowd, not a roar, not here, not this barn with its two-dollar beers and Tuesday night energy, but a kind of groan, like even the fans can’t believe how much the Steelhawks fucking suck.
And through it all, I hear the voice in my head that’s been there since I was fifteen, get up, Ash. Always get up.
So I do.
I get my feet under me before the trainers can even clear the bench.
There’s blood in my mouth, a metallic tang that’s so strong it drowns out the taste of bile.
My tongue is already thick, my head is ringing, but I skate to the bench on my own like I’m fine, like I haven’t just contributed the most exciting play of my career with my face.
Coach is there, all bug-eyed and purple, yelling about keeping your head on a swivel. But he’s got the good sense not to yank me.
They need warm bodies. And I’m nothing if not reliably warm.
The ref gives me a look like I’m a feral animal, but I nod once and plant my ass at the end of the bench.
The team doc fusses with a towel, tells me to “apply direct pressure” which I do, even though it stings like hell.
I watch the replay on the jumbotron, slow motion, high-def, the moment when I become someone else’s GIF for the week.
The crowd is too thin for a proper cheer, but there’s a rowdy guy up near the glass who thumps the boards in appreciation.
I want to flick him off, but it would just make my mom sad.
We lose the puck in the neutral zone.
I’m up on the next line change, because what, you thought I was going to sit out with a scratch?, and I jump the boards, stick ready, and skate into position with my head pounding like a bastard.
All I can see is the ice and the streaks of red I’m leaving behind. The cut is already closing up, but it’s ugly.
I take my shift.
I play like I always do, hard, a little reckless, never pretty. I get a stick on a rebound and flick it to O’Doul, who at least has the hands to bury it.
Assist number twelve for the season, not that anyone’s counting.
The rest of the game is a blur.
The sweat stings, the blood clots and dries against my jaw, the ringing in my ears is constant.
