My leg bounces when I’m nervous. Not both of them, just the left one. And no matter how much I glare at it, it doesn’t let up.
Tate plops on the bench next to me, tipping the blade of his stick at my knee. “What’s that about?”
Shrugging, I focus on the tape at the end of my blade. It’s suddenly the most important thing in the world to me. “Who’s your personal trainer again, Phil someone?”
Nodding, he bumps me with his elbow. “Stop changing the subject. What’s going on?”
Lowering my voice, I lean closer to my friend. “I didn’t get as much ice time as I usually do. Am I…? Is there something…?”
Tate’s been pretty good at pretending he isn’t observing my behavior for signs of concussion syndrome, or whateverthe fuck it’s called when you hit your head a few too many times on the ice. He’s a great friend, but every now and then, he’ll pay closer than usual attention to me like he’s making sure I’m not losing my shit.
How he can tell the difference between my regular terrible memory and concussion memory loss is anyone’s guess, but he makes for a great work wife, and I know without question, he’s got my back.
“You’re in your head about it.” He pats my shoulder. “I haven’t seen any sign you’re slipping. And we both know I’ve been watching you.” He gives me a grossly exaggerated wink like he’s hitting on me.
“Not my type, Tate.” The mood has lightened, but inside I’m heavy, mulling over every shift I skated in the first. “Tell me about your trainer.”
“After the game. But there are only so many hours in the day, man. You can’t spend all of them at the gym.”
But I can try. If I’m stronger and faster than everyone else on the ice, there’s no way I’ll get benched. It’s dumbass logic, even I know that, but it’s the only thread I can cling to that won’t shunt me off the cliff into depression. That murky fucker stays at bay most of the time, but every now and then it sinks its tendrils into my skin and tries to fuck with my mind.
Not today, Satan.
We start the middle period on a 5-on-3 powerplay, but our best chance falls right after the Rockets return to their full complement. Apollo de la Peña puts the puck right in front of me, but the best I can pull off is a midriff shot at their goaltender.
Goddamn motherfucking shit.
Chances keep falling our way, but we can’t capitalize on any of them. Tate on the left wing is only able to put his backhanded effort into the chest of their Hulk-sized netminder before we’re stuck on another penalty kill. Artemis goes to the box for delay of game by flicking the puck over the glass.
From the surly glower on his face I’d say he’s as thrilled about how this game is going as the rest of us. It’s like the puck is coated with butter, or oil, or… I can’t really say something slippery considering we play on a giant-ass sheet of ice, but none of us are doing well with the puck handling today.
The skills coaches are going to be thrilled.
The end of the period becomes the Ares Show as he makes a set of back-to-back stops to deny the Rockets, followed by an incredible save to stop their top scorer as he’s fed what looks to be a back door tap-in on the breakaway.
The whole bench is on the edge of their seat—for both teams—my blood pressure is through the roof as Ares barely has time to recover before another wave of shots comes at him.
Guy might have an ego, but he’s got the fucking skills to back it up. Kid’s talented as hell, and I’m glad he’s on our side.
A late “too many men” call at the end of the second, followed by a high sticking penalty puts the Raccoons on another 5-on-3 powerplay we still can’t convert, although it needed a big stop from their netminder to deny Tate’s powerful right circle one-timer.
It’s not until we’re back to full strength on both sides that we finally make a change to the zero-zero score taunting us from the board with back to back goals from Apollo and Tate to put us up by two.
At last. I got assists on both goals which should make me feel better about life, but it doesn’t.
“Watch your six.”
I’m not sure who Artemis is warning until I’m crunched against the boards by some big ape of a motherfucker who takes a two minute penalty for boarding.
Realistically, my teammates know as well as I do that any big hits can be dangerous. But I’ve kept the extent of my...condition to myself. Fucking hate being treated like I’m broken or weak. Or worse, being benched and not allowed to play. It hasn’t been much of an issue the past couple years. I’ve earned my place on the team. My stats have spoken for themselves. I settled into a routine that kept my headaches at bay, and for a while there I even thought making the big time was possible.
But lately something’s shifted. Everything feels harder. Training feels tougher, games take more out of me, and my headaches are becoming more frequent. My stats no longer speak for themselves, every game is a fight to protect my space on the team. Nothing feels comfortable, or safe.
As I skate back to the bench, a headache brews in my temples. What else can I do to make sure I don’t end up permanently benched?
Coach gives me questioning eyes as I take my seat on the bench. I nod at him. I’m fine. But the pain already prickling in my head tells me otherwise.
I can’t outrun this.
