4. Benji #2
She fills the second glass silently, and as she turns to set it in front of me, asks, “How did you know that?”
I shrug. “I had a few hockey tournaments there back in the day. All of our families
always wanted to visit the museums.” I pause. “Did you rodeo?”
“Oh. No.” She places the third glass next to the first two and busies herself with wiping up the leftover moisture. “I’m actually from Arizona. Sedona.”
I let out a disbelieving huff, and the side of my lip quirks as I consider her answer. She doesn’t raise her head, still focused on the bartop.
“So are you lying to him, or lying to me?”
She freezes at my question. Her eyes slowly rise to meet mine, and I’m startled by the sheer look of panic in her expression. I open my mouth, unsure what will come out, or if I’m even supposed to backtrack. I was teasing her, but clearly, I’ve said the wrong thing. I’m just not quite sure how.
Before I can say anything, she schools her face back into a neutral position and replies, her voice soft. “I guess you’ll never know.”
With that, she turns, her entire face brightening as she greets her next customer with the same fake politeness she gave Thirsty Joe, leaving me to collect the beers I’ve ordered.
I shake my head, replaying our conversation in my mind. I still have questions – more now than before, if that’s even possible. But between her obvious anger at me and all that secrecy, I can’t help thinking my reaction in the coffee shop might have been a huge mistake.
Entering the rink always has a calming effect on me, especially on our home ice. Within those four walls, I know exactly what to do. Even if the game goes poorly, I can pinpoint exactly what I will do differently moving forward. The end goal is simple: win.
The girl who has gotten inside my head? There’s nothing simple about her.
She cycles through my head on repeat as I go through the motions of our off-ice warm-ups, and then as I put my gear on.
I can’t help but wonder if I need to make a stop at the coffee shop after the game and clear her name – but then, I remember: I never even got her name.
All I have is what she looks like and where she’s from. And even that might not be the truth.
The more I think about it, the more her expressions when she crossed my path were nothing like Sheila’s.
Sheila had always been erratic, oscillating between awe and manic hostility.
This girl, on the other hand, had been confused, reserved, irritated.
Even when I made her mad, her anger had been a quiet, condescending sort.
It was nothing like I’ve ever experienced, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to grovel or return the attitude in kind.
I’m still considering it as I toy with my helmet, waiting for Coach to come in for our pre-game talk.
Conversation is whipping around the locker room, and I’m catching only snippets of it.
Goody is on another rant about how he almost went pro in golf before he decided hockey was his true path.
Nils is trying to convince Ryan, our newest player, that he should take in one of his many foster cats.
Jordie shoves me, and when I glance up to meet his gaze, I read the question in his eyes.
Before I’m forced to explain, however, Coach Henderson strides into the room. He immediately points at Levi, who has his phone out. “Put that shit away. It’s game time.”
Levi flushes and silently obliges. Coach pulls a whiteboard marker out of his pocket, removing the cap with his teeth. He spits the cap at Levi and turns to face the white board, writing numbers as he calls out the names of the respective players.
I make a mental note of the lines, nodding along with his choices, unsurprised as he announces me playing center to Levi and Jordie.
Levi is a newer addition to the team, young but talented, and we’ve had some seamless plays already.
Jordie and I have been spending more time with him, anticipating his joining our line.
I’m glad that Coach had seen the same. Unsurprisingly, Grant and Highcloud round out the first line as our defensive pair.
“Now.” Coach turns, scanning the locker room.
“This should be a relatively easy game for us all. The Force finished dead last at the end of last season, and they only have two new players. But that doesn’t mean we need to go easy on them.
If anything, this is our chance to really learn what we’re all about. Jordie – got anything else to add?”
I don’t miss the quick glance Jordie gives me, as if confirming it’s okay for him to speak. The letter C stands out on the front of his jersey, signifying his Captain status this year. The ache in my own chest is located ironically close to where the C would have been on my own jersey.
Where it had been, just last year.
Jordie clears his throat and scans the room. “What Coach said. Let’s really solidify these new lines, get some pretty goals, and bring back that W!”
Coach nods emphatically and slams his clipboard against the wall to punctuate the moment. “Let’s fucking go, boys!”
His final words are met with a resounding chorus of whoops and bangs, and with that, we throw our helmets and gloves on, grabbing our sticks as we exit into the tunnel.
The cheers meet our ears as we approach the ice, and I break out into a grin as I spot a small group of kids sporting tiny Leopards jerseys and bobbing on the balls of their feet.
Their parents hang back in the shadows, sporting grins even larger than my own.
I lean over as we stride through the tunnel, giving each kid we’ve invited a high five. Their tiny fists ricochet off my glove, but bounce back eagerly to hit each player behind me. Their excitement warms me, replacing the ache in my chest.
I step out onto the rink, and every thought diminishes at the first hiss of my skates biting the ice. The roar of the crowd becomes a dull backdrop as I work my way through warmups, envisioning plays and enjoying the thrill building in my core at the anticipation of the first puck drop.
It doesn’t disappoint.
I lose myself in the game, enjoying the way our line melds together.
By the last few minutes of the game, we’re up by four and Jordie, Levi and I are anticipating one another’s plays at least two passes in advance.
Even Grant manages to hold himself together – mostly.
He did serve time at the start of the third period for starting a fight alongside two Force players, but Highcloud didn’t seem to fault his defensive partner for it.
Grant had been holding two of the players against the boards at once, laughing maniacally as they struggled to get at the puck between his skates until one of them lost their cool and took the first swing.
If you didn’t know Grant, you’d assume it had all been an innocent play and he was the victim.
But Goody – late to change out for Highcloud, but happy to get in on some of the action when the fight started – came back to the bench and proudly proclaimed the words exchanged between Grant and the Force players.
Allegedly, he started with asking if the player’s large A on his jersey was compensating for something in his breezers, and ended with telling him to check if his sack was still down there.
I swing over the boards and settle onto the bench, laughing breathlessly to myself as I remember Grant’s broad grin as he saluted the players on his way out of the penalty box a few minutes ago.
Jordie jumps over the boards to end his shift shortly after.
He plops down on the bench next to me and reaches for his water bottle, pointing at the scoreboard as he squirts water on his face and into his mouth.
“Not a bad way to start the season,” he says, and reaches over for another water bottle, unscrewing the cap just enough that it will fall off if tipped, but not enough to notice it at first glance.
I hum, eyeing the score. Five to one. “I think we could’ve gotten at least one more. We shouldn’t let everyone off this easily.”
Levi groans from my other side. “Does that mean we get angry Benji at tomorrow’s praccy?”
“Depends,” Jordie chimes in. “Will he be extra angry because of whatever was on his mind before the game?”
Grant, always the eavesdropper, leans past Highcloud to shoot me a quizzical look down the bench. “What happened before the game, bro?”
The buzzer goes off as they all turn to me, signaling the end of the game.
Though we’re all dripping sweat, an uncomfortable cold wave surges through me as I consider how to respond.
The rookie, Ryan, skates back to the bench, saving me the trouble of responding.
We all watch out of the corners of our eyes as he goes for his water, tilting it back and squeezing.
The cap pops off, exploding water down the front of his jersey.
“Awe, hell,” he says, sputtering. “Who did that?”
Jordie slaps his back and tosses him a grin. “Just keeping you on your toes, rook.”
We all chuckle, but it’s clear that the conversation isn’t over as Jordie turns back to me, brows raised. “Do you want to get a drink after this, buddy?” he asks, his brows raised. “Just us linies?”
I smile, grateful for his understanding, and rise to join the rest of the team as they empty out onto the ice to celebrate. “Actually,” I reply, “how do you feel about a late night coffee?”