Chapter 7 #2
After the home opener, my concentration was a mess. It was like trying to play in ill-fitting gear—I could mostly go through the motions, but all I could think about was how uncomfortable and distracted I was.
In other areas of my life, I was slowly pushing forward. Moving on as much as it was possible to move on.
But here…
On the ice…
As much as hockey had always been my sanctuary and my escape, it was hell now.
I couldn’t separate hockey from Leif. I couldn’t find my way back to my U16 days when I played hockey before meeting Leif.
From major juniors onward, apart from that half season I’d spent in the minors after we’d both been drafted by the Whiskey Rebels, hockey just hadn’t existed without Leif.
And now I was trying to focus on hockey when everything about it screamed his name.
During every drill, I kept expecting to hear his voice echoing off the glass.
In between, I was keenly aware of the empty space beside me where Leif would be standing, gloved hands on top of his stick while he rambled his commentary about whoever was running the drill.
By the bench, every time I went to take a drink, I expected a shoulder in my back or a stick under my elbow as he tried to make me choke on my water.
The laughed “fuck you, Early!” on the tip of my tongue had nowhere to go.
There was no hockey anymore without missing my best friend.
After one drill, while I caught my breath, I stood a few feet away from my other teammates while the fourth line took their turn. I pretended to be watching the action.
In reality…
Get a grip. Yes, he’s gone, but you have to hold it together. This team is counting on you.
Every time someone glanced my way, their brow creased with concern, it galvanized my resolve to be strong for these men.
Grieve at home. You’re their captain now.
Remember how much it wrecked them to see you that way last night?
I took in a deep breath of cold air through my nose and pushed it out slowly. I’d had this conversation with my reflection this morning.
Leif had still felt pain and fear. He’d still grieved. I’d played alongside him after his uncle had suddenly passed away. The grief had been palpable most of the time, but once he had on his gear, he was all hockey. All focus.
He’d done it, and so could I.
Everyone was counting on it.
I was relieved to find that getting into the right mindset for a game was a lot easier than practice. Games were far more demanding, both physically and mentally. There was a lot more at stake, and this was not the time or place to be distracted.
Two nights after our home opener, we were again playing at home, this time against Calgary.
I’d felt a little wobbly during the anthems, but as I joined my line at center ice for the opening faceoff, my concentration locked into place.
Though I was aware of Leif’s banner high above my head, I focused on being a hockey player, and on showing my teammates that they could count on me as their captain and a top line forward.
I pulled it off, too. We won 4-2, and two of those goals were mine—a power play goal in the second, and an empty netter during the final thirty seconds.
I played my heart out, and my teammates did too, and no one knew about me almost collapsing from sheer exhaustion in the showers or wiping away tears the whole way home. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt us.
I can do this. I’ve got this.
That held for this game and the next three. I was a mess at home, kept it together at practice, and was probably around 95% myself during games. I could work with that.
During our sixth game of the season, though, something came unraveled.
It happened during the second period. I was still out after almost two minutes; Davis and Peyton had long since gone to the bench, replaced by fresh bodies, but I couldn’t get out of the defensive zone. Every time I tried to take off for a shift change, the action came my way.
I was gassed, but it happened sometimes. All I could do was hope for a breakaway or a stoppage.
What eventually came was a stoppage, but the relief was short-lived. The ref blew his whistle long and loud, not that single chirp that signaled a typical stop in play.
It only took a second for me to figure out why, and when I did, my heart dropped into my skates.
Eminem was on his side by the boards. Evan, our athletic trainer, was already hurrying out onto the ice, and then he crouched beside Eminem, touching his shoulder and leaning over him.
Panic surged through me so hard it almost knocked me off my skates.
Then the Zamboni gate opened, and my stomach somersaulted.
A couple members of the ice crew stepped onto the sheet with a pair of shovels and a bucket, though they hung back for now, watching where Eminem had fallen and waiting to be summoned all the way in.
That meant blood on the ice.
Oh no. Oh shit. Is he okay?
I craned my neck to try to get a look at Eminem, but Evan was mostly blocking him. Eminem was moving at least, writhing on the ice. Panic and anger twined in the pit of my stomach; which player had hurt him? Whose ass did I need to kick? And… was he okay?
I noticed my other teammates looking up. I followed their gazes, and on the screen, the replay was starting.
It wasn’t even a check—Eminem and one of their players had just collided at a weird angle, and then he’d hit the boards at an even worse one. He’d crumpled to the ice, and he was still there now.
Okay, so nobody needed his ass kicked. In fact, the other player was at his own bench, having his face checked over by a trainer. Then he was getting sent into the back, and the trainer was gesturing at his own head as another trainer nodded.
I could read between those lines—concussion protocol.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. How bad was Eminem, then?
I gnawed furiously on my mouthguard as I turned to my downed teammate.
He was being helped into a sitting position now, Evan holding his arm while Mix steadied his shoulders.
Blood ran down one side of his face, and it had pooled on the ice.
Now it was dripping onto his jersey, staining the white red and turning the gold an ugly shade of orange.
Fuck, indeed.
I turned away, trying to keep my stomach where it belonged. I eyed the ice crew’s bucket, wondering if I could get to it in time to puke.
A ripple of applause turned my head, and I blew out a relieved breath as I watched Mix and Evan easing Eminem to his feet. They paused once he was upright, Evan’s hand on his chest as he asked him something. Eminem nodded slowly, pressing a bloody towel to his face.
Then they started toward the bench, Eminem a little wobbly but mostly moving on his own power. The crowd cheered and all of us banged our sticks on the ice or the boards. He lifted his head and managed a wave at the crowd, which prompted more cheering.
I exhaled as I followed him off the ice. My shift was over anyway, but I’d been too restless and too worried to go back to the bench while he was still down.
As he continued down the tunnel with Evan, I took my seat on the bench.
“How is he?” Peyton asked over the noise. He’d been on the bench the whole time.
“I think he’s fine,” I croaked despite the way my heart pounded beneath my jersey. “Probably just rang his bell.”
Peyton nodded. “Hope the other guy’s okay too.”
“Looked like they were sending him back to be evaluated for a concussion. But he was moving on his own, so…” I half-shrugged.
Another nod. Peyton shifted his attention back to the ice, where the ice crew was still cleaning up blood. He seemed reassured—confident our teammate was banged up but okay. This was, after all, part of hockey.
But I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t get my pulse to come back down. The jittery feeling just would not relent. No matter how much I tried to talk myself down to earth, no matter how much I reminded myself this happened all the time, I couldn’t convince my heart to stop pounding.
For God’s sake, players got hurt. I’d been hurt myself plenty of times.
Hell, I’d been half-carried off the ice as often as I’d half-carried my teammates.
It happened. And heads and faces bled like crazy; for all I knew, Eminem’s visor had cut the bridge of his nose, which always looked way more dramatic than it was.
And as Evan and Mix had helped Eminem off the ice, they hadn’t had that look of urgency that meant he needed to go to the hospital or anything. He’d been upright. Conscious.
He was okay.
But I couldn’t shake this oh shit feeling. That certainty that Eminem was hurt bad.
After a few more messy shifts—I couldn’t focus, damn it—the buzzer finally sounded and the period was over. Thank God. Now I could breathe, and maybe get an update on my injured teammate.
Before I’d made it two steps down the tunnel, though, Coach stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey. Calds.” He eyed me. “You’ve been off your game since Eminem went down. Are you all right?”
Swallowing hard and shifting on my skates, I nodded. “Yeah. Just, um…” I forced a laugh. “Just rattled me a bit. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Just looked scarier than it was from where I was standing.” Not entirely a lie, so… fine.
Coach grimaced. “I understand that.” We continued toward the locker room. “If it helps, Evan confirmed Eminem is fine. He’ll be out for a game or two, but that’s precaution more than anything.”
For the first time since I’d seen my teammate crumpled by the boards, some actual relief rushed through me. “Good. That’s good.”
The biggest relief of the night? Seeing Eminem in the locker room. He’d stripped off his bloody jersey, and he was wearing flipflops instead of his skates, but otherwise, he still had on his gear. A bandage covered his nose, and both eyes were starting to turn black.
He was upright and laughing, though.
“Hey, my ass would be back out there if the trainers didn’t lay down the law,” he boasted. “I’ve played through worse!”
“Pfft.” Ziggy threw a balled-up sock at him. “You just want someone to high-stick you so you can bleed all over the place and scream ‘oh my God, double minor!’”
That had everyone in the room howling. Eminem turned a little red and rolled his eyes; Ziggy was never, ever going to let him forget that time in major juniors when he’d drawn a double minor after some fresh stitches had come unraveled.
Everyone knew he’d already been bleeding when the other kid had high-sticked him, but boy, had Eminem sold it, and with blood on his jersey, he’d scored a game-winning goal on the resulting power play.
Yeah. Eminem was fine.
Eventually, my adrenaline would come back down, and I could chill the hell out. Right?
I wasn’t going to stay like this the whole game. Was I?
Fuck. Maybe?
I snatched my water bottle off the bench and poured some down the back of my neck, letting the cold pull my focus away from my reeling mind. It helped a little, but… not much. Not enough.
Come on, come on. Get it together!
I needed to. Intermission was almost over. In T-minus six minutes, I had to be able to play, focusing only on what was happening on the ice, not in the locker room or anywhere else.
I could do this. I’d done it before, so I could do it now.
This had never been like me. Unless someone was scraped off the ice and wheeled out on a stretcher, I didn’t let it rattle me. Let it piss me off, maybe, because that made me play harder and score, but this jittery oh fuck oh fuck feeling was new.
Why couldn’t I cope with a teammate getting even slightly hurt now?
Because I’m the captain. Because I’m responsible for these men in ways I wasn’t before.
That had to be it.
Right?
Because I sure as hell wasn’t going to entertain any other explanation.