Chapter 8
Olivia
The arena is packed to the brim, which I didn’t expect. I did some research and found out that Vermont didn't have a professional hockey team until about four years ago when the Vermont Vortices formed as a lone independent franchise in the AHL. They have been doing fairly well and even made it in the playoffs last year, but they are too hot headed for their own good. They spend a lot of time in the penalty box for taking cheap shots at the opposing team and fighting.
On the one hand, I am ready for some excitement tonight, but on the other, I dread having to assert myself yet again in front of a new-to-me team. So far in the season, I’ve officiated two Grand Marquee Manticores games and I am starting to learn their quirks, who to keep an eye on, who spends the most time in the penalty box, who starts fights. I’ve also officiated two games for the Finchton Foxes, and while the coach still looks at me like I have leprosy, the captain and some of the other players have been respectful towards me and easy to talk to. I also officiated a game for the Chicago Bobcats which went surprisingly well. I think that is the first game ever in a professional setting that did not have a single penalty called.
The buzzer goes off, indicating that it’s time to start and all of us officials head out on the ice. We skate around, making sure the nets are in the proper position, and get everyone ready for the puck drop. As soon as the national anthem finishes, we get in the center ice position.
“Hi, Olivia,” Robbie says in that deep voice of his that I haven’t been able to get out of my head since that night at the restaurant. Or the night in Cleveland when he bumped into me and steadied me with his strong arms. I glance at him and find that easy smile on his face, dimples on display and all. I see he has a bit of stubble since last time I saw him. C’mon Olivia, don’t get distracted by his perfect stupid dimples now. You have a job to do.
“Elliot. As soon as I blow this whistle, you have five seconds to get in position or you’re out of the face-off.”
“Yeah, Elliot. Stop flirting with the fresh meat, and play the game. I already know I’ll wipe the floor with you, but you should at least put up a fight,” one of the Vortices players says. Did he just call me fresh meat? While that gets my blood boiling, I let it go. The game hasn’t even started and I’d rather not make an enemy out of this guy right off the bat. I notice his jersey is #42 and realize he’s one of the Vortices forwards, Dustin Mitchell. Based on my research, he spends the most time in the penalty box. No wonder.
Before Robbie can reply, I blow the whistle and since the Manticores are the visiting team, Robbie places his stick on the ice. Right before I drop the puck, Mitchell jumps the gun and places his stick down too, smacking Robbie’s out of position. I snatch my hand back and straighten up.
“Out of the face-off, Mitchell,” I call out. I can hear the crowd booing already but I’m not going to let this slide.
“The fuck? What for?” he yells out.
“I’m not here to explain hockey rules to you. Move, before I give you a delay of game penalty.”
“Goddamn bitch,” Michell fumes.
“Hey, watch your mouth,” Robbie unhelpfully interjects. I take a deep breath before my feelings get the best of me and I kick them both out. Before Mitchell can reply, the Vortices captain sends him out and replaces him.
And so it begins. We successfully start the face-off this time, and the game is afoot. I spend a lot of time dodging pucks and players, while staying alert and keeping an eye on any ensuing penalties. The linesmen are in charge of calling out offsides and icing and dropping the pucks for any of the face-offs that do not occur at center ice.
Almost five minutes into the game I see one of the Vortices players trip Ashton, so I blow the whistle and call the penalty.
“Vermont Vortices, #15, two minutes for tripping.”
The booing that follows is something I expect and have learned to ignore. I know these fans are mad because I’ve put one of their players in the box. They don’t care about the rules of the game, they only care about winning, and I can understand that from an objective standpoint. What bothers me is when the players take out verbal attacks on me. It’s one thing for them to say, “that was a stupid call,” versus them saying, “you’re stupid.” Most players and coaches know how to differentiate between the two, but not the Vortices. On his way to the box, #15 yells at me “What are you even doing here? Do you even know what hockey is?”
I ignore him as I get in position to continue the game. At the face-off, the Manticores get the puck and keep the pressure on the Vortices for the first minute of the power play, until Robbie gets a perfect pass and scores. Number 15 comes out of the box and skates by me on the way to the bench. I definitely hear the bitterness in his voice when he calls me a bitch.
There’s a small break as the ice crew is out, so I skate up to the Vortices captain and say “Captain, can you get #15 under control? If he verbally attacks me again, I will have him back in the box.” I maintain eye contact with him and can see he’s annoyed by me, but at least I gave him a warning. If he can’t control his teammates, that’s on him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a nod and skates away. The game is about to reset and I see Robbie skating up to me.
“You okay? Is that guy bothering you?” he asks with concern.
While I’m touched he’s noticed and is concerned, this is exactly why I told him we can’t be friends. “I know how to do my job, Elliot. How about you focus on yours?” I say and skate away from him, but not before I catch the look of surprise and hurt on his face.
The second period goes about the same as the first. While I haven’t been any more verbally abused this period, I’ve also noticed a change in demeanor from the Vortices. They’ve played extremely physically and have drawn at least two boarding and two tripping penalties. The Manticores are starting to get frustrated too and Ashton has spent the last four minutes of the period in the box for high sticking a rival player. The score is still 1-0 for the Manticores.
I drink some more water and use the restroom before having to head back on ice for the final period. On my way out, I see Robbie lingering in the hallway by the referee locker area.
“Olivia, hey,” he says with a serious look on his face while blocking my path. The man is giant, especially on those skates.
I let out a frustrated sigh, because what the hell is he doing? Accosting me at my job? Doesn’t he have some speeches to make in front of his team or something?
“What now?” I say, annoyed.
He grinds his teeth and I see a muscle tick in his stupid perfect jaw. He looks nice with a bit of stubble, and his lips look full and soft. Inviting.
Damn it.
Damn him.
I need to stop checking him out.
“Look, I’m sorry if I offended you out there. I wasn’t trying to suggest you weren’t capable of doing your job. The opposite, in fact. I just,” he sighs, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says, looking chastised.
I hold his gaze when I say, “I accept your apology, but like I said, I’m fine. I don’t know what you think this is,” I gesture between us, “but out there you don’t get to question me or my calls. You can disagree with them all you want, but you are a player and I am an official. That is the end of our professional relationship. I don’t need you to be worried for my sake.”
His shoulders slump, but he nods. His gaze searches my face, and whatever he sees there must placate him because he says in a quiet voice, “Understood, Miss Wilson. I won’t bring this up again.”
Whatever tether was between us snaps as he walks towards the ice.