22. Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold
REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD
SUTTON
There’s something about game day that’s invigorating—the showy fanfare, the obnoxiously loud noise level of commentators’ patter, the competitive air that’s so tangible I could choke on it.
A lot of the guys dread playing high-pressure games, but I view it as an outlet to finally show the world how hard I’ve been working.
It’s been a few weeks of consistent wins for the Mustangs, and this is the game that determines whether we make it to the Frozen Four.
We won our conference tournament, won the regional semifinal against the New Hampshire Hellcats, and now it all comes down to the regional final.
This could guarantee us a spot in collegiate hockey’s biggest competition.
Keeping the team’s winning streak alive is important, but today’s anxiety comes from the idea of performing in front of a special someone. Stupid, considering she’s been at every game since analyzing our strategy with that notebook of doom she carries around.
I stand in the tunnel of a rink away from home, whispering the top five things I’m grateful for before the introduction procession starts and our team takes the ice.
I’m grateful for my dad and all the hard work he does to keep people safe.
I’m grateful for my friends, who continue to be there for me despite their own busy schedules.
I’m grateful for Coach Lawson and his words of encouragement, even if they’re a little abrasive at times. It just means he believes in me.
I’m grateful for my health, well-being, and financial security. I’m in a very privileged place right now where I don’t have to struggle to simply stay afloat.
And lastly, I’m grateful for Lake Capitano.
She makes me so unbelievably ecstatic, and there was a point in my life where I was getting worried that I forgot what true happiness felt like.
She scares all the gray clouds away when I’m with her.
She’s a shot of sunlight in the darkest of hours—an attestation of hope’s resilient nature in the face of eternal suffering.
The audience is already pretty rowdy. We’re up against some of the best teams in the division, and I don’t want to disappoint everyone who has come out to support us. Driving to the Denny Sanford Premier Center in South Dakota isn’t a small ask.
My never-ending thoughts are playing Whac-A-Mole with a labor of overexaggerated outcomes, each one plucked from the darkest depths of my implacable imagination.
I chew on my mouthguard distractedly—my belly insistent on doing nauseating somersaults—and I glance out of the chute that protects us from scrutiny before the metaphorical trumpets sound.
A wall of cold hits me before I even step onto the ice. It shocks my sinuses to life from proximity alone, and my uncertainty about the future has me teetering on a vertiginous ledge between everlasting stardom and social suicide.
Unrest is about to maul me alive just as Crew slaps me on the shoulder, jarring some sensibility back into my quivering frame.
His presence is grounding, and maybe it’s a testament to how good of a player he is, but he doesn’t seem nervous in the slightest. He looks out in awe at the packed audience like it’s his first time on the ice.
There is something magical about playing—the wind snapping behind your skates, the sterile-smelling environment, the bleak, uncomplicated colorscape that rests easily on your eyes despite being overstimulating and heavily photoluminescent.
There’s a small interval of time where you’re the center of attention, and that kind of exposure feels… good. Validating.
I’m not sure what Crew was droning on about beforehand, but one of my trigger words, “Lake,” grabs me by the scruff and shakes.
An undignified “Huh?” tumbles out of my mouth.
“You two have been getting pretty close,” Crew says, barely having to lift a finger to make me squirm.
I gulp. If I was hooked up to a patient monitor in the hospital, those waveforms would be zigzagging all over the place. “Yeah, she’s—she means a lot to me. We’ve kind of just been keeping things on the down-low.”
Honestly, any time I get to spend with Lake is time I cherish, but a part of me wishes we could be something more serious. I’ve been living on the ice; she’s been busy with school and other responsibilities. We haven’t seen each other in over a week.
A teasing smile carves into Crew’s face. “Down-low, huh? She’s got a front row seat.”
“She’s a journalist, remember? She needs to be on the frontlines.”
Crew salutes. “Whatever you say, Casanova.”
I don’t get a chance to double down and, ironically, confirm his suspicions before I’m being shoved out of the tunnel to line center ice.
Our opponents, the San Diego Spartans, mirror our configuration on the other side of the rink, decked out in a blue and gold color palette that clashes against the earthy tones of our black and maroon uniforms.
The national anthem begins to blare over the speakers as bright lights flash every which way, and I make it my priority to spot Lake in the front row before I get swept up in the heat of the game. The Pop Rocks sensation fizzling in my belly feels a lot like unconditional affection.
The fluorescents toss luminescence over her petite figure, emphasizing the pride she wears on her face, her petal-pink lips twitching into a cheek-plumping smile. She’s so goddamn beautiful that it’s almost hard to look at her.
Introductions are quick to commence, then Knox is practically thrown to the wolves for the face-off.
Here it goes. We can do this. I can do this. I just need to treat this like any other game and protect my teammates.
Hunched over and thighs spread, I’m in a defensive position on the left side of Knox, ready to flatten anyone who tries to steal the puck from our offense.
My hunger for victory and my competitive caveman urges are pit-fighting for complete console control over my next set of actions.
There are some fast skaters on the Spartans, but the Mustangs have some expert stickhandlers who are going to give them a run for their money.
The whistle blows; the chaos ensues. Sticks clatter, the puck goes flying somewhere to the right, and I move parallel to the rush of the game, kicking up miniature flurries from the inertia of my launching point.
Knox spearheads the attack, bolting through our opponents with little concern for their half-hearted swipes.
His stick is an extension of himself, cradling the puck and freezing it while he maneuvers his way through a newly winnowed space of players.
The guy is absolutely crazy—bred for entertainment.
I bring up the rear, but with the speed he’s moving at, he has no trouble evading the incoming offense.
Crew makes himself open, lingering at an opportune angle to sink the puck into the other team’s net despite the shadow guarding him.
I drown out the rising decibels of noise in the arena, focusing on the burn in my thighs and the lack of saliva in my mouth.
It feels like I’ve swallowed a lungful of ashes, and the sweat that drips into my eyes turns my vision snowy around the edges, as if the immediate vicinity has been Saran-Wrapped in a blizzard of white.
All these system-smothering stimuli compete for my undivided attention, overstaying their welcome when I hear the announcer shout out the new score.
Knox—who never passes up the opportunity to show off—must have chosen to one-time the puck instead of lowering his guard by passing to Crew. Not a bad decision on his part, especially if our captain was garnering too much attention from the Spartans.
He breaks out his famous celly, egging the already bloodthirsty mob on.
1-0 in the first seven minutes. All we have to do is ride this momentum to the semifinals. The game resets, blue and gold jerseys retreat back to their side of the rink, and the Mustangs form a pyramid of defense to hover directly behind the frontlines.
Some of our adversaries look exceptionally unhinged, baring their teeth in a pantomime of intimidation, but I can see through their nearly translucent facades. All bark and no bite.
The face-off commences with one of the Spartans’ forwards hurling the puck back to his teammates, and everyone swarms to the proprietary holder with no pretense of a grace period, overzealous, shouting profanities that lose their clarity amongst the bedlam of sticks and skates.
The giant horde snowballs, making the referees’ jobs exceptionally hard when people are shoulder-checking and sweep-checking in the same breadth.
Axel, our other defenseman, is smart enough to protect our defensive zone in case the Spartans make a mad dash for the goal, but the chance of a turnover increases with our forwards poke-checking for the puck.
There’s no point of distinction. I can’t make out where the disc is.
Warning bells ring in my head as a shot of adrenaline pushes my feet to pick up the pace. Number two untangles from the chaos at center ice and comes careering right toward me—all sheer force and willpower—and my other teammates are scrambling to catch their bearings.
I don’t think before I act. I match his velocity, consolidate all my strength in my lower half, and bowl over the adversary without losing my balance. The poor guy stumbles to the side, surrendering possession.
It’s Harlan’s turn to take the reins, swooping down to regain control of the disc. The meat of the battle shifts again, and my heart feels like it’s ready to eject itself out of my body at any given moment. My moth-wing pulse is unassuageable.
Unlike last time, I’m afforded an unimpeded view of the Spartans’ goal, and I watch as Harlan flings the puck into the net, billowing out the nylon.
War cries puncture the air; things are heating up with each second that passes. I can’t get comfortable riding this high. We haven’t won yet. If anything, all we’ve done is shake the wasp’s nest.