I come back to myself, suddenly aware that Carter is now heading down the tunnel, accompanied by the trainer, holding a towel stained with red to his head. I glance back to the spot where it happened, but they're already scraping the ice.
Before I know it, Langley and I are being sent to the penalty box — him for high-sticking, me for fighting. I sit, trying to see thebench, wondering if the guys know any more than I do about Carter’s condition. Instead, I see worried looks and glances back to the tunnel.
“So you’ve got a new girlfriend, I see?”
Langley’s voice comes from the other penalty box and although I worry the attendant will hear him, my worry for Carter is stronger.
“Nice and blonde, that one. He’ll make a beautiful hockey wife.”
The rage is rising inside me, and I’m struggling to control it. I watch the clock, counting down my remaining time here.
“Nice eyes, too. I bet you love looking into them while you?—“
“Langley, shut it!” The ref must’ve heard this last comment from his place on the ice.
I turn slowly and look at him — really look — for the first time in over a decade. His black hair is longer now, falling into his eyes. At the corner of his mouth is a crust of blood, probably from my own fist.
“Keep Carter’s name out of your mouth if you wanna keep your jaw intact.” I glare at him and half expect him to push farther, to find some name to call me. I'm not sure what he sees on my face, but instead, his eyes widen. As he looks away, the horn sounds the end of the second period. I throw myself onto the ice and head for the locker room.
When I getthere I’m relieved to see Carter on the bench, a butterfly bandage over his right eye.
“Carter...are you okay?"
He looks shocked at the question, and I wonder – have I been that bad of a captain to him? Is he truly surprised I care?
“It's fine, just a little laceration. Let's finish this.”
Still, he seems shaken. I look around me at this motley crew of players, and I know I haven’t done what I need to to help us gel as a team. I guess it’s not too late to try. I turn to Coach Ramsey, who is standing next to a whiteboard.
“Coach, can I say a few words?”
He looks at me, hesitation evident on his face. After a few seconds, he makes the decision, giving me a brief nod.
“Guys, listen up!”
The locker room quiets, the team looking to me, more than a little surprised.
“This is a critical game for us.”
I hear a few laughs from the veterans, but I stare them down.
“I know what you’re thinking — this is preseason, what does it matter? But listen, this game is going to define our season. If we’re going to let every team we play get in Carter’s face, call him names, push him around, then we should just quit now. That’s not what hockey is about, and that’s not whatwe’reabout. We have the best fucking forward in the league, and he can’t do a damn thing about it, because we’re all too timid to have his back. That includes me — and it stopsnow.”
Their faces express a range of feelings — uncertainty, shame, and — from Alexei — pride.
“I want usall overthem. If they hit hard, you hit harder. And you open up some fucking lanes so we can remind the rest of the league what a fucking mistake they’ve made to let us get Carter. Do you understand?”
I get some decisive nods, and a few yeses.
“Boys, I believe your Captain asked if you understand,” this comes from Ramsey, still standing behind me.
“Yes, Captain!”
This time they speak as one, and the energy crackles through the room.
“Good. Let’s finish this.”
On the bench, Carter smiles at me for the first time.
