“Go, go, go!” I yelled quietly to myself and felt my own body move along with the play in my seat as my little brother, Duke, stickhandled down the ice on a breakaway.
He was almost to the net when a kid on the other team hooked him, taking out his right skate, and taking away his opportunity toscore.
Duke’s little body slid toward the goalie as the ref blew the whistle.
I stood up, covering my mouth and craning my neck to see if he wasalright.
I didn’t have to wonder for long though.
Duke was up in a second and charging after the kid who tripped him.
No, no, no, I mouthed to myself.
I groaned and dropped my head into my hands as he pounced on the other kid and the refs went berserk blowing their whistles.
At least his team was playing on the NHL sized-rink of the Ice League arena. The NHL rink’s bleachers spanned out all around and could seat about 3,500 people. I loved it because I could sit peacefully by myself while the other kiddie’s parents all gathered together behind the home box. On the Olympic side, which was mostly used for figure skating ice time, there was only watching space on one side of the rink, and I’d surely have to make small talk with the mothers on the team.
I liked to watch by myself and just focus on the game.
And… I hated when the other parents rolled their eyes at Duke’s temper. They nicknamed him “little ball of hate,” which I couldn’t stand hearing.
He got a lot of penalties, ok? The kid was physical, so what? He also scored more than anyone else, so I didn’t know why they cared so much.
And we were working on his game temperament together. It was a work in progress.
But I couldn’t blame him for being mad and losing it today. He was in the right this time.
Through my hands, I saw Duke land a couple punches in on the kid who tripped him before the refs could pull the two little kids apart from each other.
Now Duke was hanging his head as one of the refs pulled him by his jersey toward the penalty box.
“No penalty shot?!” I jumped up and yelled at the ref dragging Duke.
I couldn’t contain my outrage. Because it really wasn’t fair. Duke was playing great and he wouldn’t have fought if the kid hadn’t tripped him. Duke had been playing the puck all game, while these kids were slashing and throwing cheap shots the whole time. It was actually a wonder Duke hadn’t thrown down earlier. He totally deserved a penalty shot seeing as it was just him and the goalie until the stupid brat on the other team intervened— against the rules– I might add.
He made eye contact with me then– the ref, not Duke.
He was probably around my age, and his serious, light blue eyes gazed back at me while a little smile played on his face.
I let out a frustrated sound and crossed my arms over my chest, daring him to break eye contact first. I arched an eyebrow at him, challenging him, but felt my cheeks heating up– my body’s efforts to revolt against my brain. I truly hated attention and just wanted to sit the hell down, but he was wrong, and I needed to let him know as much. For Duke, I could stand my ground.
Ref boy shook his head at me with a grin as he ushered Duke into the penalty box.
Did he think this was funny?
Just because I wasn’t a parent didn’t mean he shouldn’t take me seriously. Would he smile like that if a dad on the team yelled at him?
I was totally done with assholes who doubted my hockey knowledge. Even though I was a figure skater, I probably knew more about hockey than half the guys who went to my high school– which was saying something for a public school in a small hockey town like Northfield, Minnesota.
Duke was the only one who actually took me seriously when it came to sports. Whenever I gave him advice, he actually listened to it and used it to improve his game. We watched a bunch of old and new games together, played NHL on our Xbox, and read Players’ Tribune pieces together for fun. The ice was how we bonded as siblings. Sure, he was a fourth grader, and I was a junior in high school, but Duke was my best friend.
Duke and I probably spent way more time in the rink than anyone else as well. Our parents were workaholic doctors who sometimes spent days on end at the hospital– which was why I usually took Duke to his games, like today. It was a fine arrangement for us, Duke and I figured things out just fine. We lived in the subdivision just down the street from the rink, so we walked here almost everyday for either practice or games. I did get my license a bit ago, but I didn’t feel safe enough to drive us, especially not in the wintertime with all the ice and snow…. And a small left and right issue hindered my confidence behind the wheel. Duke never complained, but I think he wanted me to start driving.
We had it down to a science– besides the driving part–I practiced on the ice right after school, so Duke would do his homework in the stands while I skated, and then the days he had practice, we’d swap– he’d skate with his team while I did my homework. Dinner was usually concession stand food unless I felt like making something when we returned home, which was usually once a week when I was feeling creative.
I blew out a sigh… Well, Duke was going to be pretty bummed after this game. Maybe I’d take him to get 7-11 slushies to cheer him up.
I looked up to the game clock and noticed they hadn’t even put his penalty on the board, signaling that he’d be sitting the rest of the third period.
