Chapter 12 #3
Benson skates over and sits down on the bench next to me.
“Stan won’t let it go, huh.”
“No.”
“I told him to.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m telling him again.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Whistle’s coming.”
“Yeah.”
He stands and skates back to center ice.
Coach splits us into two squads. He splits the lines down the middle — half of each line on white, half on dark.
Benson is on white with me. Stanley is on dark.
Dark wins the face-off. Stanley collects it in the neutral zone, gives a quick pass to his winger, the winger goes wide, the winger feeds it back to Stanley at the dot. Stanley snaps it. Percy gets a piece of it. It deflects in off the post.
Stanley raises his stick and skates past my bench.
I hear for Melly in my own head as he goes by.
Next shift, I’m on the ice. Stanley is on the ice.
The puck dumps into the corner in his zone. I forecheck. Stanley is the first man back on D — they’re shorthanded a defenseman because Coach rotated, and on a five-on-five turnover, a winger has to drop back. Stanley is the one back. Stanley is the one chasing the puck into the corner.
I’m coming in at full speed. He gets there a half-second ahead of me. He turns to make the rim pass up the boards. I pin him.
It’s a clean board battle. Shoulder square on the back of his shoulder pads, stick under his stick, body locked. The kind of pin you can show your coach on tape and your coach will say good forecheck, next play. But I drive him into the boards harder than I would.
He goes into the glass face-first. His helmet thuds against the plexiglass. The whole rink goes quiet for the count of two.
Benson, on the bench, says, “Jesus.”
Coach skates over from center ice. “Golding.”
Stanley spins off the boards, laughing. He throws his head back, looks at me, and loud enough that everyone on the ice, everyone on both benches, and Percy at the goal hears it, “Worth it.”
Coach gets to us. Coach is pissed.
“Golding. What the fuck.”
“Clean hit, coach.”
“It’s a fucking practice.”
“Clean hit.”
He stares at me for a second. He knows it is a clean hit. He knows that’s not the problem.
“Take a fucking lap. Now.”
I take a lap. I skate the length of the rink slowly, stick on the ice. Behind me, Stanley is bouncing on his heels, and Benson is skating over to him, saying something I cannot hear. The rest of the boys are pretending they didn’t see any of it.
I get to the far end of the rink, touch the goal line with my stick, turn around, and skate back.
Coach blows the whistle to restart.
Stanley is at the face-off circle. Still grinning.
I take my position on the wing.
I play the rest of the scrimmage contained.
I don’t pick a fight. I don’t drift. I don’t show anything on my face. I play the way I’m supposed to play. I cycle clean. I get to the net. I take a shot from the dot that hits Percy in the chest. I make the next rush back-checking the way Benson taught me to back-check two years ago.
Stanley doesn’t chirp me again.
The truce holds. We’ve been doing this for two years. We speak this language fluently. He made his point. I made mine. He’s going to leave it alone for the rest of practice, and we’re going to walk into the locker room as linemates. That is how this works.
Coach blows the final whistle at eight fifteen.
The locker room is loud. Stanley is already yelling about something. Benson is asking Rowan about a defensive zone read. Percy is at his stall fully geared up.
I sit at my stall, lean down, and start undoing my skates.
My shoulder will not let me undo my skates the way I usually undo them. I have to twist my body funny to get the laces with my left hand. I’m sweating. The joint is fucking angry.
Stanley sits down next to me. “We’re cool.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m done.”
“Thank you.”
“But Goldie.”
“What?”
He drops his voice. He looks at his own skates. Not at me. “You should talk to her.”
I don’t answer.
“That’s all. That’s the last thing I’m gonna say.” He stands and walks across the room to his own stall. He starts undressing.
I sit at my stall with my left skate half-laced and my right shoulder pad still on, and my chest doing nothing I have a name for.
The guys are gossiping about Halloween parties like a bunch of girls, and my shoulder’s fucking burning like a bitch. I shower and get dressed slowly. The locker room empties around me.
Stanley leaves last. I sit at my stall for a minute after he’s gone. Then I get up, sling my bag over my good shoulder, and walk through the rink corridor. I push through the back door into the lot. It’s a new week. The first Monday of November, and I feel it in the air.
Stanley has no fucking clue who he’s even talking to. If he did, he would know that I don’t talk. Talking to her is the last thing I want to do. But somehow he’s right about it.
He doesn’t know that I’ve been quiet for years, refusing to acknowledge her existence.
He doesn’t know that I’ve changed everything about myself. Where I live, who I hang out with, my habits, the food I eat, and the remaining constant is somehow still her.
I hate to give it to him, but he’s right.
I should talk to her.