Chapter 1 – Beau #2
My heartbeat picks up as I prepare for the next barrage of shots, but there’s no time.
Shot after shot comes flying in my direction over the next few minutes.
It feels like Calgary never leaves our zone, firing off no less than five shots in less than a minute.
I turn them all away, but not cleanly. I don’t manage to get control of any rebound, just deflections off my glove or stick, leaving my defense to clean up the mess.
I can barely track the puck in the slot, sending up a silent plea for a break from the Yetis’ assault, but I doubt I’ll get one soon.
“We’ve got another faceoff coming to Beau Hendrix’s left. Cooper Hendrix is lined up against Jarvinen. He’s been giving the Timberwolves a run for their money as they struggle to hold on to their narrow 2–1 lead here late in the second period.”
“That’s right, Steve. Beau Hendrix has been struggling to keep his team in this game. He’s made some big stops, but I’m seeing hesitation in his lateral movement. Something has been missing his usual surgical precision.”
Cooper shoots me a look across the slot, one part question and one part warning.
I want to ignore him, but I know that’s not an option.
Not only is Cooper my older brother, but he’s also the team captain.
I’m a captain, too, but it’s not the same.
He’s the heart of this team, and this will be his last season wearing a Timberwolves jersey.
Next season, he’ll be turning in his jersey and hockey stick for a three-piece suit and a clipboard when he takes over as our new head coach.
Right now isn’t the time to be reliving my family issues. I need to focus on what’s happening on the ice. Nothing else matters. Not my brothers, not the pain, not the fear. Nothing but keeping the Yetis from lighting the lamp and adding another win to the Timberwolves’ record.
I blink my eyes rapidly, trying desperately to clear the sweat dripping into my eyes so I can focus on what’s happening on the ice. I just need to make it until the end of the period and get a minute of peace, maybe even some painkillers, and I’ll be good as new.
“The Yetis win the draw clean and move the puck to the point—” one of the announcers shouts, the sound reverberating through my skull and causing me to wince.
“The Timberwolves’ defense needs to get better at watching for the backdoor cut as Mitchell slips behind the weak-side defense.”
I manage to spot him half a second too late, drifting behind our defense, blade cocked with his eyes locked on his D-man, Reinhart, like they’ve run this drill in their sleep. Mitchell fakes a slapshot and sends it low, hugging the boards.
I push across the crease, but I’m too slow again. The ice doesn’t glide; it grabs. Anchoring my skate into place for a heartbeat too long, my gloved hand twitches, but not fast enough, as the shot comes in low and mean, like a bullet screaming just inside the pad line.
“Mitchell makes a quick pass to Reinhart, aiming for Hendrix’s glove side—”
“I think Reinhart has him beat—no! The puck ricochets off the pipe, helping the Timberwolves maintain their lead!”
The sound of the puck hitting the pipe rings through the cage of my helmet, sharp and metallic, like a warning bell.
I don’t hesitate as the puck slides into the blue paint, dropping hard.
My hip bone slams into the ice moments before my stomach follows.
Cold slithers through the padding, numbing the burn that’s already settled in my ribs.
“Hendrix scrambles, losing the puck in the crease, but somehow manages to recover.”
“That was another close call for Hendrix and the Timberwolves. Coach Mercer is going to need to make some changes before the start of the third period if the Timberwolves want to win this game.”
I feel the weight of every eye in the arena crushing me as I stay down a beat too long.
My pulse echoes in my throat. Every inhale scours the inside of my lungs like dry ice, but I grin and bear it, pushing to my elbows and then my knees before finally rising to my full height.
The crease spins once, a slow roll of nausea in my gut, before the world levels again as I hold out my gloved hand, presenting the puck to the referee.
“Not the cleanest stop from Hendrix, Taylor, but it keeps the Timberwolves on top. He’s been one of the most consistent goaltenders in the league, but tonight? Something’s just... off.”
“I’ve been saying the same thing all game, Steve. Whatever is going on, let’s hope Hendrix doesn’t figure it out before the Yetis can get another one. The score remains 2-1, with the Timberwolves holding on to the lead.”
I catch Cooper’s eye again as he resets for the next faceoff.
His eyes narrow, and I know immediately there’s no escaping checking in with Parker before we head back to Portland.
There’s only one other person on this entire planet who knows me better than Cooper, and I doubt she’d have let it slide this long if Cooper hadn’t told her not to worry.
But now Cooper is worried because he knows there is something wrong, and I fucking hate it.
Everyone has been nagging me to get checked out by the team doctor, or Parker, at the very least, since I made a passing comment about being tired all the time.
On the surface, it makes sense that I’m tired.
With practices twice a week and trips back and forth to Redwood Falls to meet with my honorary little brother and hang out with family, anyone would be tired, but this is something different.
It’s a bone-deep exhaustion that, no matter how much I sleep, just won’t go away.
Until today, I thought nothing of it, but with this almost unbearable joint pain and swelling, maybe a check-in with Parker isn’t completely out of line.
My eyes flick to Coach Mercer, waiting to see if he’s going to pull me from the game.
He should. I know it, Cooper knows it, but there is a part of me that doesn’t want to leave the ice.
A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me that if I leave the ice right now, I might never return.
But Coach doesn’t even glance in my direction as he shouts orders to my teammates.
I almost miss the puck drop as the Yetis manage to pull off a nearly perfect dump-and-chase maneuver, but Rizzo has their number.
“The Yetis change tactics with a routine dump-in as Portland’s Rizzo tracks it behind the net. Should be a clean retrieval for Rizzo, but wait… he fumbles the puck!”
The puck rattles around the boards behind me like it’s got teeth. I swivel to follow, legs already protesting the pivot moments before the puck skips right under Rizzo’s stick, opposing skates carving toward the crease.
“Here comes the Yetis offense on the forecheck—a two-on-one developing fast!”
My pads are heavier than they should be, but I manage to get my body to cooperate and square up, blinking against the white glare off the glass, and drop.
My knees scream as the pain intensifies exponentially; all my joints feel like someone is driving a nail into my bones.
My eyes track the puck as it zips out in front of me, a clean pass as I ready myself for the first shot.
It comes in hard and fast from the far side, but I swing my blocker up and catch it on the edge.
It ricochets away with a dull thunk, but it doesn’t clear far enough.
“Hendrix manages to wave off the first shot with his blocker, but Calgary is right there to clean up the garbage.”
Reinhart comes in hot for the rebound, firing toward the opposite side of the net. My groin strains as I slide across the ice, barely making it in time to stop the puck from hitting the back of the net. It ricochets off my leg pad, wide and to the left.
“What a save by Hendrix! He manages to deflect the second shot with his pads, causing everyone to scramble inside the crease—”
The puck’s loose in the paint. Every available body is crashing around me, trying desperately to stop the puck from going in, while another set of sticks is trying to get it in.
My vision blurs as I fight to remain focused before the puck breaks free.
I move again on instinct, lunging forward, glove splayed like a trap.
My chest hits the ice hard enough to rattle my teeth as I barely manage to secure the puck beneath me.
“Another amazing save by Hendrix! That will allow the Timberwolves to maintain their one-goal lead.”
The crowd roars its disapproval as boos rain from the stands, but I don’t move.
I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Everything’s too loud.
The whistle, the voices, my pulse thrumming in my ears like a college drumline at halftime.
I can feel my hand shaking inside my blocker, tremors I can’t seem to stop, no matter how hard I try.
My fingers feel thick and uncoordinated, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
Sweat slides down my spine, cold and slick beneath the pads.
A sharp sting flares in my cheek where I must’ve bitten down.
I can taste it in the back of my throat now, coppery and raw, like licking a rusty nail.
It curls around my tongue, bitter and metallic tasting just like failure, and for the first time, I’m terrified of what’s happening.
My body is betraying me, and not only is there nothing I can do about it, but I have no idea how to stop it from happening.
“But Hendrix is still down in the crease. I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with him,” the announcer says, their voices laced with concern, moments before the horn sounds.