2. I’m pretty sure the girl who was just evacuated on a stretcher doesn’t feel the same way.
"I’m pretty sure the girl who was just evacuated on a stretcher doesn’t feel the same way."
Caleb Hawthorne
The puck drops in less than an hour, and a few of us are in the gym, kicking around a soccer ball—our usual pre-game ritual. It helps us decompress, take our minds off hockey, and burn off just enough nervous energy without overdoing it.
Maxime Beaumont groans as Aaron Miles launches the ball, sending it sailing into the rafters.
“Dude, you have to learn to dial back your strength a little,” Beaumont mutters, hands on his hips.
Miles shrugs. “Don’t hear you complaining when I bodycheck someone out of your way on the ice.”
“Easy, Frenchie Boy,” James Adler says, clapping Beaumont on the back. “We’ll get your ball back.”
Beaumont rolls his eyes as he and Adler grab a pole. Together, they attempt to fish the ball out of the rafters. Suppressing my smile, I let them struggle, even though I know for a fact there are at least two more balls in the equipment room.
After a solid two minutes of failed attempts—and a lot of unnecessary commentary—they finally dislodge the trapped ball, and we get back to playing.
But our streak doesn’t last long.
“Oh, come on!” Miles groans after fumbling a pass. “That was a bad pass.”
“Again with that excuse?” I shake my head.
“Yeah, bro, it’s getting old,” Adler chimes in. “Everyone knows I’m excellent at passing. Now, if it were Beaumont, on the other hand . . .”
That earns a round of laughter. Even Miles, sore loser that he is, cracks a reluctant smile as he steps out of the circle. Meanwhile, Adler and Beaumont have fully shifted to bickering mode, trading choice re marks back and forth like an old married couple.
“Are we gonna finish this, or should I just leave?” grumbles Noah Wilcott, our goalie.
Even more laughter echoes through the gym.
“My apologies, Wally,” Adler says with a toothy grin. “Forgot we had the brother of a soccer champion gracing us with his presence.”
Wally flips him off, not even bothering to argue. He’s an excellent goalie—our last line of defense, and the reason we made it as far as we did last season—but he also fits every goalie stereotype in existence. Moody. Grumpy. Intense.
“All right, let’s go again,” I say, slipping into my team captain’s voice. This whole thing is meant to keep us loose. If we spend the entire time bickering, it kind of defeats the purpose. Granted, arguing is mostly how we communicate, but still.
Truth is, we’re all a little on edge tonight.
We’ve had a rocky start to our season, and our loss in game seven last year against the LA Lions, who we’re playing again tonight for the first time since, is still fresh in our minds.
We manage to finish the impromptu ball game in peace. Leaving the gym, we each head to conditioning before we hit the ice for warm-ups.
When we get back to the locker ro om, Coach Martin is ready to give us his pre-game speech.
“All right, gentlemen. We’ve got this. Keep working on your shifts, get the puck across, and stay focused. Let’s go hard at them tonight.”
Everyone claps and cheers as Coach gives Adler a sheet of paper.
“Rrrraptors!” he bellows, walking to the center of the room and scanning all our faces, his eyes lighting up.
I know for a fact this is one of his favorite moments of any game night.
James Adler is an entertainer at heart. “Here we go. We have Frenchie Boy, Cap, and me in the front. Miles and Kraz in the back, and Wally in the cage. Let’s win this game, boys! ”
We all get up and share a round of fist bumps before walking on our skates toward the tunnel, burning with confidence.
Playing at home is always such a treat. Our fans are undoubtedly the wildest in the NHL, and as we skate onto the ice, they prove it to us once again, cheering their hearts out and applauding harder than ever.
The moment they take the ice, Beaumont, Miles, and Adler’s eyes all zero in on the front row near the bench, where their girls are seated.
They’re all married now, except for Adler, though I’m guessing there'll be a ring on Beth’s finger in the near future—and yet another wedding I’ll have to attend.
Don’t get me wrong , I’m happy for them.
I just don’t understand how they can make it work with us being gone half the year.
Focusing on my game is my top priority. Not only is my position of center crucial to the game, but I take my role of team captain seriously.
I always give a hundred percent to everything I do, and relationships are no different.
Getting involved with a girl wouldn’t be fair to her, to the guys, or to the fans.
Once the pre-game shenanigans are over, we all skate to center ice, ready for puck drop.
I win the first battle, but before long, a loud shrieking sound pulls us out of the game.
It takes me a second to realize it’s the Raptors call blasting on repeat over the speakers.
The sound effect usually only plays at the start of the game and when we score, but for some reason, it’s stuck on a loop, making everyone in the audience and on the ice crack up, particularly Adler, who loves to imitate it.
The referee calls us back to the center, and as soon as the glitch is resolved, they put us back into play. I fire the puck to the right, and James catches it clean, fakes a pass to the center, then whips it back to me.
I’m gliding fast, the ice beneath me slick and unforgiving. We’re deep in their zone now, and the LA Lions aren’t making it easy. Every pass, every move feels calculated.
The crowd is roaring, but it’s nothing compared to the adrenaline coursing through me. I can feel the pressure of my teammates behind me, pushing me, urging me forward.
I grip my stick between white knuckles as I speed toward the net, watching the defense scramble.
A quick glance over my shoulder tells me James is still in position, but I’m going to take this myself.
I lift my head just in time to see a Lion defenseman hurtling from my right, his shoulder coming straight at me.
A split second later, I’m hit.
I barely have time to react before I’m slammed into the plexiglass.
The impact is bone-crushing, the glass shuddering violently under the force of the blow.
I feel myself pressed on the glass, but the boards don’t hold me in place.
The glass bends inward, cracking along the edges, as my body launches out of the rink.
My momentum carries me straight through the shattered plexiglass, and I’m catapulted into the front row.
I crash hard into something solid, and the air leaves my lungs as I collapse, dazed.
The world spins around me. My ears are ringing, but I can barely focus on anything as I try to push myself upright. I hear the crowd’s frantic gasps, but I can’t make sense of what’s happening.
Then, as my vision finally comes into focus, I realize I’ve collapsed into someone's lap. I freeze, trying to steady myself. My breath is heavy, and my skull is throbbing, but I’m more concerned about who I just landed on.
“Oh my gosh,” someone calls. “Her head hit the step. She needs help.”
I reach out to help her, but several people are now blocking my view while the medics hurry through the crowd, urging us to leave her some room to breathe.
“Caleb, are you okay?” comes the familiar voice of Clark, one of our team doctors, as he kneels behind me.
I turn around to face him. “Yeah, all good.” I touch my head, still protected under my helmet. “But the girl—”
“I know. Jim’s with her. Let’s get you out of here, okay?”
I follow him and the other staff members back to the medic room, where Clark gives me a thorough checkup before he allows me to get back on the ice.
“You scared the heck out of us,” Adler says, giving me a hug as soon as I hit the ice. The boos of the crowd transform into cheers, and I wave at them as I join my teammates.
The guys all gather around me, hugging me or slapping my back.
“I’m fine,” I tell them. “Really.”
“The refs are reviewing now to see if that was a bad hit,” Adler says. His eyes are fixed on the center ice, where the officials are huddled together to watch the replay. “Already had a look. To me, it seems clean, but we’ll see.”
Of course Adler would be all over the tape. He loves to review the game footage, constantly analyzing every play. That’ll be his retirement gig, for sure. I smile, even though it’s half-forced. “I’m sure it was clean. Didn’t feel like a bad hit.”
“So sorry, man,” Jacob from the Lions calls out as he skates over to me, offering a nod of acknowledgement.
I pull off my glove to shake his hand. “No worries. I know. It’s part of the game.”
Jacob offers a grin, then heads back to his team’s bench, leaving me to collect my thoughts as we await the referee’s decision.
The air is thick with anticipation, the energy emanating from the crowd hostile, but my mind isn’t focused on the game anymore.
I can’t shake the image of the woman’s unconscious form, sprawled awkwardly beneath me.
Finally, the referee skates to center ice. The silence in the arena is deafening as everyone holds their breath.
“After reviewing the play, the call on the ice stands: no penalty,” he announces, his voice loud enough to carry through the arena. The crowd boos ev en louder, but as we resume play, they quickly settle down.
It feels fair—at least to me. I know the hit wasn’t malicious. But I’m pretty sure the girl who was just evacuated on a stretcher doesn’t feel the same way.