But there’s no getting around it, we’re circus animals.
The pregame anthem is louder than usual, the lights hit just a second longer, the camera crew from KIRO stalking us all the way from the locker room to the bench, like we’re going to collapse before puck drop and make their evening.
Ash is the last one out of the tunnel, helmet tilted just enough to keep his face in shadow.
He always does this thing where he taps his stick twice on the dashers before taking the ice, and tonight the sound bounces through the building like gunshots. The crowd eats it up.
They love him now, the perpetual benchwarmer turned star, the guy with the scar on his chin and the look in his eyes that says "hit me again, see what happens."
The Titans are already lined up at the blue line, helmets off, every head turned toward us.
Their captain, Kruchten, is front and center, shoulders squared, jaw tight. He’s got the kind of face that would be handsome if it wasn’t for the perpetual sneer carved into it, like he’s chewing glass even when he’s not.
He catches my eye for a second, then shifts to Ash. Doesn’t look away.
There’s a myth that hockey is noble, that it’s just good clean violence, but anyone who’s spent more than a period on the ice knows: it’s personal.
Every cross-check, every face wash, every chirp at the dot—it's a test to see who will break first.
I watch the handshake, the ceremonial stick tap, the polite murder that passes for sportsmanship in this league.
Ash doesn’t flinch. Kruchten leans in, says something, and Ash just laughs, helmet bobbing, and I know the sound even from fifty feet away.
Puck drops, and we’re off.
First period is all nerves, all adrenaline, both teams playing scared and sloppy, nobody wanting to make the first mistake.
Ash is on the second line tonight, Coach giving him more ice time because his hands are hot and the last game winner still made Sportscenter.
He’s flying. Every shift, he digs deeper, chasing pucks he has no business reaching, slamming into bodies twice his size, coming up grinning every time.
Kruchten targets him early. First shift, he runs him into the boards so hard the glass flexes.
After the whistle, he buries his glove in Ash’s face and calls him something. I can’t hear it, but I can guess.
Next time down the ice, he does it again, only now the ref’s not looking, so he throws in a little elbow for free.
Ash pops up like it’s nothing, mouthguard in, already jawing back. I want to tell him to keep his head down, to let it slide, but I know it’s useless. He’s not wired that way.
He never has been.
From the net, you see everything. The way plays develop, the seams in the defense, the set of a guy’s shoulders before he snaps off a wrist shot.
But what I see tonight, more than anything, is the slow-motion trainwreck of Kruchten versus Ash, two magnets locked in, neither of them willing to veer off course.
We kill off a penalty early, then give up a shit goal on a weird bounce off Raz’s skate. I bang my stick on the post, the vibration running up my arms all the way to my teeth.
The whole time, Ash is on the bench, chewing his lip, watching the Titans' captain like he’s waiting for permission to punch him in the throat.
Between periods, the locker room is dead quiet. O’Doul tries to break the silence with a joke about the ref’s hairpiece, but nobody bites.
Even Coach is muted, just dry-erase marker on the whiteboard, hands trembling like she’s on a caffeine drip.
Ash sits at the end of the bench, helmet off, sweat running in a line down his temple. He’s got a cut over his eyebrow, already scabbing, but he doesn’t wipe it away.
He looks at me, just for a second, and the flash in his eyes is something between "help" and "don’t you fucking dare."
The second period is worse. The Titans get mean, start running our guys in the corners, hacking at wrists, slashing ankles behind the play. The refs miss half of it, or pretend to.
