Page 15 of Puck Me Back to Life

Kai

The worst part is that we lose.

The final score is close enough that analysts will spend the next three days breaking down missed opportunities and momentum shifts and defensive mistakes. Sports radio will call it a promising start to the season. Commentators will praise how hard we fought. Somebody will inevitably put together a montage of the game's highlights with dramatic music underneath. My face will probably be in half of them.

The thought makes me want to throw up.

As I skate toward the tunnel, the crowd rises to its feet. Most of them are applauding. Some of them are already filing toward the exits. Kids lean over the glass hoping for fist bumps from players.

It should feel normal. It should feel familiar. Instead, all I can hear is one voice.

You should have been the one who died.

The words came from somewhere behind the bench during the second period. A drunk middle-aged man. The kind of person who would never say something like that if we were standing face-to-face in a grocery store. But people become brave when there's glass between them and the target.

You should have been the one who died.

The sentence has been echoing through my skull ever since. The worst part is that I don't feel angry. I agree with him. The arena noise fades behind me. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz softly.

My ribs ache with every breath. That hit into the boards did more damage than I'm willing to admit. The adrenaline kept it manageable during the game. Now that things are slowing down, every movement sends a dull throb through my side.

I press a hand against the spot instinctively. The gesture doesn't help.

The medical trainer catches sight of me almost immediately. “Hayes.”

I look up.

Andy's already walking toward me. He pushes up his glasses onto his head. Andy's been with the Wizards for a while now. He's 32, I think, tall, and that kind of rugged handsome that I think a lumberjack would have. I knew him before my hiatus, and it seems he's still memorized all of my tells.

“Let me guess.” He points at my ribs. “You're fucked.”

“A little.”

The look he gives me suggests he doesn't believe that answer. He's right not to.

“Come see me after you get your gear off.”

I nod.

“Will do.”

Andy disappears toward the treatment room.

I continue into the locker room. The atmosphere is strangely subdued. Nobody likes losing, especially on opening night. Guys are peeling off equipment in relative silence. A few conversations drift through the room, but they're quieter than normal.

I lower myself onto the bench and begin removing my gear.

The process is automatic at this point. Gloves. Helmet. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Each piece hits the floor with a soft thud. My ribs protest every movement.

Eventually, the room begins to thin out. A few players head toward the showers. Others disappear into the training area. Some leave entirely.

I should probably go see the medic. Instead, my eyes find Ash. He's sitting a few stalls away.

Only half-dressed while pulling equipment apart. Dried blood stains the tape wrapped around his hand. His knuckles are split open.

The sight sends a strange feeling through my stomach. Nobody has fought for me in a very long time. Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk over.

Ash glances up. His long black hair is loose now, falling around his face.