Page 65 of Body Check

twenty-three

. . .

Jason

Seattle is kicking our asses. Who would expect the last place team in the league to find the mettle to absolutely obliterate the second place team? It’s our first game back after the All Star break, and we are rusty as fuck.

Boston is at the top of the standings in the Eastern conference, second only to Colorado in the Western conference. We’re absolutely killing it. The team is gelling like never before, half the team is on a points streak, and MacGregor scored two hat tricks in the last five games.

We’re on fire. Just not tonight.

I’m playing like I’m twenty-seven again, and not thirty-seven. Getting regular athletic massages is definitely helping, even if I can’t get them from Amelia. I respect her too much to put her job in jeopardy, and in the bedroom, we’re careful to keep work and my knee issues separate from us.

As much as I love hockey and playing the game I love, the travel is starting to get to me. I’ve done this for more than a third of my life, and had a good little wife waiting at home for me, but I never itched to get back to her the way I do with Amelia. When we’re on the road, I can’t talk to her, can’t touch her, and can’t fall asleep holding her.

I have to keep my distance. I can’t be the reason anyone finds out about us. Not before she’s ready.

If it was solely up to me, I’d scream it out from the rooftops. I’d tell management, my teammates, her brothers… everyone.

But I would never push her to announce it before she’s ready. However long it takes, I’ll bide my time. The ball is in her court.

Unlike the puck, which is decidedly in the Boston defensive zone. I shake my head and try to focus on the game in front of me. One of the opposing players shoots, but Henry deflects it, dumping it out of his glove.

Another player tries for a rebound, but Sinclair gets a stick on it and finally manages to clear the puck to Seattle’s end. Coach slaps my shoulder, and I vault over the boards and onto the ice.

We’re down 4-1 with seven minutes to go. It’s an impossible task they’re asking of us. There’s no way we can do it.

Larsson and I flank MacGregor as we zoom into the Seattle zone. He passes to me, and I kick it back to Larsson. He pauses for a second, faking like he’s about to shoot, and then saucers the puck over to MacGregor.

The center’s one-timer is brutal, and as he slaps the puck on goal, my knee buckles.

I’m not doing anything strenuous. My stick is on the ice, ready for action, but Joseph, the Seattle defenseman guarding me, isn’t touching me. Nothing happens.

But my knee can’t support me, and I go down. The wind is knocked out of me, and I sprawl on the ice, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

“What the fuck,” Joseph shouts. “I didn’t even touch you.”

The goal horn sounds. MacGregor’s snipe was successful.

It takes considerable effort to get back up onto my feet. I’m still laboring as I join my teammates for the post-goal celly.

“What happened?” Larsson mutters in our huddle at center ice.

“Just tripped.”

“Mmhmm. Your knee?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

We skate past the bench to bump knuckles with the rest of the team, and Derek pulls me in.

“Let’s talk,” he says. It’s not a request; it’s an order.

“I’m fine,” I say again.

“He didn’t trip you.” He says it like an accusation.

Grabbing a water bottle, I take a drink, and then spray my face and the back of my neck. “My knee is acting up. I’m fine.”