I can’t cry at a hockey game. From the looks of the swinging fists on the ice, there’s no crying in hockey. Plus, if I let myself cry, I’m pretty sure my tears will freeze my eyes shut. And that’s just inconvenient.
Huh. It’s kind of tempting though, considering how much I hate this experience.
Maybe if they played on a beach, where it’s warm and sunny and people could bring me fruity cocktails with umbrellas in them while the athletes do their... sportsball thing it would be better.
The fight escalates. Other players are literally dragged in by their shirts. One guy has another one in a headlock, another has someone gripped so tightly by his shirt that any time the trapped player tries to move he wobbles on his skates.
The only player not involved is the goaltender... netminder? Goalie? Keeper of the gate?
Whoever he is, he’s off to the side of the mob by himself, despite the fact that the melee has broken out right in his space. If that was me, I’d be yelling “Get off my lawn.” But he just stands, face impassive, focused, leaning on the top part of his stick as he takes it all in. Is he bored, too?
The crowd is screaming around me, cheering the gladiators on in their battle. But the goalie just stares on.
I know I wouldn’t be so calm if a fight broke out at my front door, but he just seems so chill. I wonder what that’s like, to be calm in the face of chaos. Or, you know, at all.
Dad covers my hand with his, stopping me from twisting the hem of my shirt between my fingers. My stomach’s churning. What if someone gets hurt?
For a second I think the goalie might feel the same way as I do. I don’t want to call him a coward, I mean ultimately he’s crazy enough to put himself in front of a really fast flying... something that people keep shooting at his face. But in this moment he’s all the way off by himself.
My heart ticks up and races harder and faster as one player’s helmet tumbles to the ground a split second before he lands on his ass. Instead of moving to help, the goalie shuffles a little further away.
I can’t see his face through his mask-helmet-thing, but his fuck-off-vibes are pretty clear. He doesn’t want to partake in anyone’s bullshit. Though he kind of looks as though he might want to sweep them all the hell away from his goal with that broad stick of his.
I guess my attention is drawn to him because he seems to be a loner, just like me. Always on the edge of the action, but never brave enough to participate. The realization makes me shift in my seat, and Dad’s hand covers mine again, pulling it from my face where I’ve been twisting the stud in my nose.
“This is just part of the game, Ellie-Rae.” He pats my thigh in a bid to calm my anxiety. “They’re all going to be fine.”
When the game resumes, there’s like five players sent to the time out box, and yet their benches don’t look any emptier. The announcer starts listing off the reasons everyone’s been sent to the naughty step as the referee drops the disc between two players.
Is it a ball? I can’t really see from up here. It doesn’t move like a ball, though, or bounce like one, so I could be wrong on what the black thing is that the players are now chasing around the ice like labradoodles scampering after a tennis ball.
My head’s turned one way, watching as the athletes throw themselves over the barrier and glide over the ice. Why the hell don’t they just use the door like a normal person?
Okay, so less labradoodle, more elegant, athletic, brick walls on skates, but in my periphery, the light over the goal lights up and everyone is on their feet screaming.
I missed another one. There have now been five goals scored in this game, and I’ve missed all of them. Every last one.
It’s all just too fucking fast.
I have no idea why hats are landing on the ice, but everyone around me is throwing their ball caps and hats onto the ice. Why would they do that? Hats are freakin’ expensive. I bought Dad a Hawkeye’s baseball cap for his last birthday, and it cost me thirty bucks.
If he threw that thing onto the ice I’d be pretty pissed.
Where do all the hats go? Can you get them back? Are those people picking them up, hired specifically for that job? Hat picker upper?
“He scored a hat trick, Ellie. That means hats on the ice. You have like two weeks to claim them back.” I’d say Dad’s a mind reader, but he just knows me well enough to know how I tick.
There are fewer than five minutes left in the game. My eyes keep drifting to the goaltender. I’m pretty sure he just tripped that guy standing in front of him up with his stick. Can he do that? I mean, if someone was in my space and I had a big-ass stick like that, I’d wanna smack him with it too, but how come he wasn’t sent to the glass box of shame?
I feel like the guy from the other team is kind of asking to get beaten with a stick. He’s back in front of the UCR goal, and he’s all up in the netminder’s business. The goalie is very clearly unhappy about it, and when I take my eyes off the net for like a second to see if the referees are watching this guy pissing off the goalie, a blur of movement draws my attention back. The goalie has clearly taken things into his own hands. Quite literally. He’s swinging his fists at the opposing player’s face.
Man, they got undressed quickly. One minute they had helmets and gloves and the next, bam, fists in faces.
I’m not sure who’s winning in this battle of the punches, but I can tell from the scowl on our goaltender’s face that he’s mad. Big fucking mad. I’m pretty sure those huge pad things covering his legs are getting in the way of him kicking that guy’s ass, and he’s mad about it.
But he’s still standing, and that’s pretty impressive. His hair is dark brown, or black, I can’t tell because I think it might be wet, and he has a strong jawline covered with a smattering of stubble.
The visiting player lands a punch on the goalie, and despite the trickle of blood down the side of his face, the goalie grins. It’s a dangerous grin, intense, full of assurance, and it sort of feels dazzling in all the wrong ways, like a lion grinning at an antelope right before he chows down on it for lunch.
