Gabriel drops his gloves first.
It's fast and sharp. The other guy lands one back. They grapple, helmets knocked loose, jerseys twisted.
I have watched fights before. I know the choreography. I know the difference between a staged scrap and something that isn't entirely planned.
This one isn't staged.
Gabriel isn't smiling.
He takes a punch to the cheek. His head snaps back.
My stomach drops.
They tumble to the ice. Refs rush in. The whistle shrieks.
The crowd chants.
I'm silent.
I stare.
They separate the players. Gabriel skates to the box, jaw tight, knuckles red.
Mason skates past the penalty box and taps the glass with his stick once.
Brother language.
You good?
Gabriel nods.
I sit down slowly.
“You okay?” my mom asks under her breath.
“Fine,” I say.
Iam notfine.
The second period opens with more edge. Hits are heavier. Whistles shorter. The other team is pushing. Mason clears the crease hard. Gabriel blocks a shot near the slot and limps for half a second before straightening.
I notice.
I notice everything.
There is a shift late in the second.
The puck cycles high. A defenseman winds up and fires.
Gabriel drops in front of it.
The puck slams into his leg.
He goes down.
He doesn't pop back up.
The arena sound changes. It dulls.
