Five
ADAK
As I skate to the players’ bench, I watch the team warm up. As usual, my attention gets caught on Lamar. He’s already scratched up the ice in front of the goal and has moved into his stretching routine. Which, currently, has him on all fours as he practically humps the ice.
He bends his back, scoops his body down as if he’s a shovel picking up rocks, and then reaches his chest to the lights, neck back and hips pressed nearly to the ice with his legs spread. He repeats this several times.
When he’s done dirty doggin’, he rolls onto his back and bends his knees. With his hands secured on his knees, he pulls his legs apart, stretching his groin muscles.
Next to him, two other teammates mimic him. Partially because they find it funny. But also, because, say what you will about how it looks, that man is nimble.
Hollinger is nearly panicking at the news that we’re moving him into center, but he’s a solid player and swallows that fear so his team can’t see it. I pull him aside before the game.
“You got this, Holly,” I tell him.
“I don’t want to let the team down,” he says quietly.
“You’re not going to. Even if we lose disgustingly, remember that this is a team sport. You alone are not responsible, regardless of what position we put you in. Understand?”
He takes a deep breath, holds it, and then nods as he exhales.
“We’re that bad, huh?” he asks quietly, his dark eyes looking into mine. I can’t tell if he’s looking for reassurance or honesty.
“No. We’re our own worst enemies since Min’s injury. Half the team is playing cautiously, thinking they’re next to be injured. The other half is already seeing defeat.”
Hollinger nods. “I’m not a good center,” he confides.
I tap his helmet. “You’re in your head. You need to readjust your thinking.”
He nods again. I can see when he retreats mentally, but it only lasts a moment before his confidence is back. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I’m not the best at speeches and whatever so I leave it up to Hollinger and Traer to get the guys’ spirits high. I’m not convinced that they manage it, though.
At least we’re home today. Home arena advantage and all that shit. It likely won’t encourage them too much at this point. Even seeing the sea of orange and black in the stands won’t register today.
I’m not a praying man, but I send up a quick prayer to whoever might be watching over us that we don’t see another injury today.
At the whistle, Florida gets the puck and they’re immediately all up in Lamar’s face. He blocks two attempts right off and the puck flies around the board, heading toward Florida’s goal. Lamar picks himself back up and stares at the puck across the ice.
It’s back and forth for a long time. I’m thankful that Lamar has managed to keep his net clean.
That is, until I think the treasonous thought and we accept a goal.
Lamar stops the first attempt, and ends up in a heap with three other players.
Florida sinks the puck, but it’s still such a jumble that it’s not just the puck in the net, but one of their players slides in with the momentum when he was knocked down.
He’s on his ass within the net, looking out and laughing.
I might find it amusing had the goal not been on our end.
On the one hand, I enjoy seeing them smile and having a good time. Even if the smile isn’t from my team. Too many people in the world dread going to work every day, so when I see the guys happy, it makes me happy, too.
We end the first period at 0-1. I rub my eyes as we sit in the locker room, letting the team catch their breaths. Hollinger and Traer trade off talking. Reminding the team we still have forty minutes left, and we’re only down by one.
Meanwhile, I think about how we can get our motivation back.
The second period is a disaster. It starts out well enough when Hollinger scores and the cheers are nearly deafening. He grins widely, accepting the hugs his team envelops him in. I smile, nodding when he meets my eyes.
Let’s keep doing that.
Well, the next play is the very worst kind. Axtel and Marlon Emmons, Florida’s center, get tangled against the boards as they chase the puck. Their collision into the boards isn’t as hard as some but Emmons goes down and doesn’t get back up. He immediately rolls to his back and grabs his leg.
A whistle stops the game as his teammates gather around. When it’s clear that he’s not getting up, Axtell gets close and peers into the huddle.
I can’t see what’s going on from here. But the refs are there now. As are Florida’s coach and the med staff. The teams split, heading back to their benches while the medical team talks to Emmons. Axtell looks distressed, like he wants to cry.
I clap his shoulder, but he shakes his head. “Not your fault, Ax,” I say.
He nods, but that doesn’t change how he feels. Regardless of what team you’re on and how aggressive you play, you don’t want to see a player seriously injured. For Emmons to stay down suggests it’s not just a bruise.
Minutes pass and a stretcher comes out. Emmons is lifted onto it, his face tense as he leans his head back, eyes closed. We watch as Axtell skates to his side and grips his wrist while they carry him off the ice.
I can’t tell what Axtell says from this angle, but Emmons nods without opening his eyes.
His pain is probably pretty intense. When Axtell comes back, clearly feeling guilty as fuck, Hollinger wraps him in a bear hug and says something in his ear.
Axtell nods and wipes his face, then nods a little more earnestly.
The game is called back into play and the teams reassemble on the ice. I already know that the injury is plaguing more than Axtell. My team looks weary now. There’s going to be murmurs about an injury curse before long. I can only imagine how the rest of this season’s going to go.
The second period ends 1-1.
Into the third and I already see defeat on their faces. I’m irritated so I don’t say anything. Nothing that comes out of my mouth is going to be as encouraging as it needs to be. Hockey is partly a mental game and right now, my boys might as well have taken a mental beating.
Florida scores practically as soon as the puck drops. Then comes a fight where it’s apparently not clear who’s earned a penalty. The four referees gather with Florida’s assistant captain and ours—Renny.
Irritation makes me turn away as the referees confer. There’s a sea of screaming fans behind the bench and all around. I remind myself that they’re here to see us. A stadium full of fans are here to cheer on the Bobcats.
As I’m turning back, my attention catches on a single person.
I’m not sure why; it’s not like he’s looking at me.
He’s in the middle of the row, practically right in front of me, wearing a Minden #81 jersey with a burnt orange Bobcats hat on.
He’s watching the referee conference with a frown, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
I stare. I don’t know why, but I can’t look away. The world around me—the chaos, the lights, the noise—it all fades. The big guys to his left that are on their feet yelling and screaming fade. All I see is this young man.
“Adak.”
Blinking out of trance, I turn to Traer.
“Okay, boss?” he asks.
I’m not his boss, but I get tired of correcting semantics. “Yeah. Just irritated.”
He snorts. “Penalty in our favor. What do you want to do?”
I consider taking Lamar out once the puck is in play, so the power play is six on four, but with the black clouds hanging over their heads, I think we’ll lose more goals than the advantage will call for.
“Heavy on offense. Keep Gibbs in.”
Traer nods. “Good idea.”
I always appreciate when we’re on the same play page. Though I should be watching the game, I can’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder.
The man isn’t watching the ice anymore but me. Our eyes meet and his widen slightly in surprise. Once again, I’m lost. Entranced. Who is he?
Jostling in the booth has me reluctantly turning around.
It truly doesn’t matter that the penalty was in our favor. Somehow, the damn Manatees score on our power play. Yep. That’s the kind of game we’re having.
We end the period with Florida scoring a fourth goal, a minute-three before the period and game ends.
Part of me wants to throw something. But I don’t. I keep my cool, even as my fingers curl in frustration.
But then I feel it. I feel his eyes on me. The man in the crowd. I can see his face that I’ve snuck glimpses of several times through the rest of the game. He’s still there. He’s still watching. What’s he thinking?
As the Bobcats head for the chute—Gibbs wobbling on his skates as if they’re coming out from under him and his arms bouncing at his sides—I twist back to the crowd. He’s watching me again, just as I knew he would be.
My heart races and I know I have to meet him.
Grabbing Traer before he can follow the team, I turn him toward the stands. “That guy right there. Looking this way. Wearing Min’s jersey and an orange hat. You see him? Directly in front of me, three rows back?”
“Yeah.”
“Will you grab him? Bring him back to my office?”
Traer looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. There’s a solid chance I had. “Uh, sure. Okay.”
With that, I turn to follow the team off the ice, though I keep gazing up at that guy because… I can’t stop myself. He’s… just… calling to me.