Chapter 11
WYATT CHASE
We’re nearing the end of the third period, and I haven’t stopped moving or watching the melee on the ice like my life depends on it.
Between taping ahead of the game, walking through any lingering injuries with players to make sure that they’re ready and healthy to go tonight, and then triaging anything that’s been happening on the ice, I feel as exhausted as I did when I played.
It’s our first game of the season which means that I’m down in the trenches with the team, making sure that any new injuries can be treated quickly. So far, no one’s had to leave the game, but I know that there are going to be a few new treatment plans come morning.
The stadium is packed–our stadium. I’m grateful that we got to start a home. Settling into the on-ice rhythm is easier when I’m familiar with the terrain.
Even so, the frenetic energy in the air is palpable, but we’re still only tied. And while that isn’t necessarily a problem, we’re playing a school with a much worse program. We should be blowing them out of the water.
“I can’t catch a break out there,” Trevor, a sophomore, says as he hops over the boards. I can feel his frustration. He’s on the first line in what would be Asher’s place, but they haven’t been able to put anything together tonight.
During the pre-season, I sat in on my fair share of practices. Being able to watch the guys play helps me know which players are trying to obfuscate injuries and what each of them performing at one-hundred-percent looks like.
Right now, I can see that there’s something wrong with West’s right shoulder, even though he hasn’t sought out treatment during the last shift change.
He’s favoring his left side, maneuvering–sometimes awkwardly–to ensure he’s approaching from the direction that will cause him the least pain.
I make a mental note to follow up with him after the game.
“Good hustle out there,” Zane says as another shift comes off the ice. He hands Carter a water bottle, which the freshman guzzles like he’s been out there longer than forty seconds.
I’ve tried to keep a wide berth from Zane over the last week, only talking when it’s in regards to treatment plans. But my priority is the team, so if he’s behaving appropriately with them, then I’m calling it a win.
“I thought that they were supposed to be a shit team,” Carter says to no one in particular, handing the water bottle back to Zane.
The biggest problem is that our opponent isn’t doing anything particularly special.
They’re doing a good job creating traffic in our zone, but that’s the bare minimum that any D1 hockey team should be managing.
In my opinion, which I wouldn’t be stupid enough to share out loud, is that our team is playing like they’ve all just met.
There’s no trust. No awareness. No anticipation.
I see five completely separate men out there, nowhere close to working together as a unit. We’re lucky that it’s only tied up at one goal apiece.
We have under a minute left, and I know that the boys won’t be happy with a tie. Hell, I won’t be happy with a tie. Last year, the Renegades went to the Frozen Four finals and just lost out on securing the championship win.
With the way that we’re playing this year, we’ll be lucky to make it to the playoffs at all.
The locker room is quiet post-game. Everyone knows that the game shouldn’t have ended in a tie.
I guess I’m at least happy that we didn’t lose.
That would have taken the already somber mood down a few extra notches into something that could end up involving a couple of fists smashing into walls.
And it definitely would have extended my night of fixing up injuries.
As the players strip down, I catalog the various injuries that came out of the sixty minutes of play. What I think is West’s shoulder. Carter took an especially hard hit to the ribs when he went back in for the last rotation. A couple of split lips that were treated at the time of the injury.
At least everyone still has all of the teeth that they started with tonight. I think.
The players are sitting in front of their lockers in various states of undress.
I can already see a purple, puck-shaped bloom on West’s upper arm, now that he’s stripped out of his jersey and pads.
As long as the bruising isn’t too deep, this is good news.
It means that he didn’t strain or tear anything and that it’s not actually his shoulder that was impacted.
I stride over, my first-aid bag still slung across my chest. I pull an instant ice pack out of one of the compartments. “Here. Ice up.”
“Thanks.” He takes the ice pack and presses it against his arm.
As I’m about to check his injury in more depth, Asher walks into the locker room.
He was in one of the boxes reserved for guests since he can’t suit up and space on the bench is already limited.
He’s wearing a white hoodie with a black jacket over it, and a pair of dark jeans.
It’s the most dressed up that I’ve seen him since we met.
I avoid looking at him. I need to stay focused on the players in front of me and not how well Asher’s shoulders fill out his fitted bomber jacket.
I also know that he looks even better out of it.
God, he’s been doing a number on me this past week. I don’t regret coming out to him, but I do regret that any lingering stare on my part could now give me away in a way that it wouldn’t before. At least he doesn’t know that he’s exactly my type.
Plus, hydrotherapy twice this past week didn’t help things.
But I’ll never let my own ill-advised feelings get in the way of giving him the best treatment possible.
And that meant that I had to suck it up and watch him glide through the water in a pair of tight shorts that contoured to his body like a second skin.
Even in his injured state, he was a sight to behold. Large arms, vined with tattoos. A perfectly manicured beard that he scratches whenever he’s deep in thought. Intense, blue eyes that are finally looking less haunted. He’s coming back to himself, and I smile just thinking about it.
I realize that West is looking at me. Makes sense since I’m still standing directly in front of him, grinning like an idiot. “Can you give me a quick range of motion check?” I say, recovering. He tentatively lifts his arm. “All the way up. Point your fingers toward the ceiling if you can.”
I let out a relieved breath when he does it easily.
“Good. Ice packs for twenty minutes, every two hours for the next forty-eight hours. On Sunday night, switch to warm compresses. It will help with blood flow. Sleep with your arm elevated. We can check in Monday morning and see how the healing is progressing.”
I’m sure he’s heard all this before–most athletes have. But I’m going to say it anyway, just in case he needs to hear it again.
He nods, and I’m pleased that he’s taking my instruction so seriously. “I’ve got it.”
“And West?” I say, wrapping up my speech along with handing him a few of my leftover cold packs and a couple of warm compresses that I still have in my bag.
He looks up at me. “Yeah?”
“No keg stands this weekend, okay?”
He salutes me and laughs. “You’ve got it.”
Coach’s deep voice booms through the locker room.
I make my way quickly over to the edge where the rest of the coaching and medical staff are standing.
“Gentlemen, I’m going to make this short tonight.
We’ve successfully completed our first game of the season, and I know–and you know–that we didn’t get the outcome we wanted.
On Monday, we’ll run through the tape and discuss the areas for improvement.
Until then, rest up. I don’t want any reports of a wild weekend blowing off steam. ”
I want to laugh, but I’m too tired. The post-game comedown is real.
I guess that’s the benefit of being a twenty-year-old–an insanely quick rebound on exhaustion.
Once I do my wrap-up notes, I need to repack my med supplies and then pick up Lyla from my parents’ house.
Once we get home, we’ll do our bedtime routine which can take anywhere between thirty minutes and about two hours, depending on how adamant she is about ‘just one more story.’ It also doesn’t help that it’s a Friday night and she knows it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I wanted to wait to text until after the game but Lyla’s already asleep. Okay if she sleeps here tonight?
I smile down at the screen, which is a photo of her last Halloween when she dressed as a hockey player, a blacked out tooth and all. I sigh, knowing how much I’ll miss her tonight. I guess I overestimated her ability to withstand a sugar crash.
I know there’s a good chance that she’ll end up sleeping at the old house multiple nights every weekend, especially during the season. I don’t like it, but they love her as much as I do, and I know that she’s in good hands.
I quickly type back my reply. Sure thing. I’ll swing by and get her in the morning.
Suddenly, I feel like the awkward kid at a school dance. The coaches are starting to head out of the locker room so that the team can shower and get into whatever (hopefully controlled) debauchery awaits.
Asher is still sitting at his locker, and if I was paying more attention, I’d think that he was trying to catch my eye. But I’m not paying attention because I can’t. If this week was any indication, I need to keep the boundaries clearer than ever.
Instead of meeting his eyes, I fall into step with Jake. “Tough one tonight,” he says.
We hit the hallway that will take us to the main hub of the building.
“Hopefully it’ll light a fire under the guys.
” I’ve been on teams like that before. Sometimes, they need to feel like underdogs to band together and become something great.
I’m not saying that’s what’s going to happen to the Renegades this season, but it’s the most optimistic take that I can find.