Page 13

13

Jeremiah Blake

Boy, was I right. Hockey is definitely the game for me. It’s been two weeks since I became a fan, and let’s just say, I am hooked. What a game. It has everything you could ever want in a sport. Excitement, suspense, eye candy, violence, and intrigue galore.

It’s all very exciting.

I’ve learned so much since I started watching. A whole new world has opened up for me.

I’ve learned there are a hell of a lot of teams in the NHL, so in a roundabout way, I was right about that too. There are thirty-two teams, to be exact, and a hell of a lot of players on each team, twenty per game. Or is it twenty-three?

Hmm , I’m not sure. I’ll need to google that.

I am sure there’s an incredible amount of organization and coordination involved in the game, though, which I wasn’t expecting at all. I always thought it was a bit of a bun fight where everyone just did their best to get close enough to the puck to whack it, but no, there’s so much more to it. Each player has a set function. Defense or offense. And there are lines of players, which are like little mini teams within the bigger team. Each line comes onto the ice, plays for a while, and then goes off again. They do it to ensure everyone gets a turn with the puck, which I think is very sweet.

I also know all about the Stanley Cup now. It’s a very big deal, and there’s a lot more to it than simply being an oversized water bottle, believe me.

I’m at the point now where I know so much about hockey that I start cheering at exactly the same time as the crowd on the screen, and what a feeling that is. It gives me a real sense of community. Of connection. Honestly, I’m starting to understand why straight men love sports so much.

I’ve done an incredible amount of research, and yes, I did have a little lie down when I discovered communal showers are a real thing. I thought they only happened in porn. And I had to have another lie down when I realized jocks are an official part of hockey uniforms, but honestly, who could blame me for that? It’s enough to make anyone lightheaded.

If I absolutely have to find fault with the game, it would be in regard to the uniform. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a big deal or anything, but if I were designing a hockey uniform, I’d forgo the whole baggy shorts thing and just go with a football-style pant. You know, something fitted and compression-y. Compression helps recovery, and these are professional athletes, for heaven’s sake. They’ve spent an incredible amount of time training and honing their bodies. It must be so disheartening for them to be unable to show off their thighs. Or their butts.

Poor things. I feel for them.

My research didn’t stop there. As soon as I recovered from the communal showers, the jocks, and a brief deep dive into compression pants, I learned all about adorable things like hockey team nicknames, rituals, superstitions, goal songs, and pre-game performances.

I love all of it. I really do. I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much of my life not watching this beautiful game.

I hit fast-forward on my remote and my TV screen blurs into white, red, and black squiggles as I rush through the next play at double speed.

Beside me, Marcus sweeps a hand heavily across his forehead and groans loudly. “For the love of God,” he says through his teeth. “If we’re going to suffer through this, can we please just watch the whole game?”

“But, but, why would we watch hockey if Ben’s not on the ice?” I ask.

“Because, Jeremiah, we’re normal. At least, I am.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Fortunately, my fast-forwarding worked because whatever needs to happen for Ben and the other center to go to the middle of the rink and fight over the puck has happened.

Yay.

I love this part.

Ben crouches low, eyeing the opposing player for three, maybe four seconds. It’s a look that could strip meat off a bone. His eyes move microscopically from left to right as he sizes the other player up. His gaze drops to the red dot between them, and before the puck drops from the ref’s hand, his mouth hitches up on one side. It’s a telling smile I’ve spent hours studying. It’s a smile he smiles when he knows the puck is as good as his.

He’s never wrong.

The other player is quick, but Ben’s quicker. In fact, Ben is so quick it hardly seems human. He taps the puck between the other player’s skates and hits him with his shoulder hard enough to see the poor guy sprawled out on the ice. Ben leaps over him and chases the puck like a missile. A homing missile with a target locked in. His stride is fast but loose enough to look graceful. He moves with a laid-back ease that’s deceptive. Far from being casual, when he moves like this, he’s lethal. He draws the first defenseman out and gets around him with a left and right tap of the puck that looks like a laugh. Like a joke. Like Ben’s a pro and everyone else on the ice is learning to play. He approaches the circle at blistering speed. The other defenseman is bricking it over to him, but he’s too slow. Ben has his eye on the prize, left corner, back of the net. He shoots and scores.

The crowd and I go wild. Marcus asks if we can watch something else.

“Holy shit! Did you see that?” I yell, still on my feet with both hands in the air. “Did you see what he did there? My God, it was unreal. Do you see what I mean, Moop? Do you see how good he is?”

“Was,” says Marcus.

It’s a single word, but it deflates me. It hurts my feelings irrationally because it’s true. Ben is retired. I know Ben’s retired. Everyone knows that.

I sit back down on the sofa, opting for a seat a little farther from Marcus this time.

“What do you want to watch instead?” I ask.

“Dunno. Schitt’s Creek , Parks and Rec , Brooklyn 99 . I don’t care, just anything but this.”

“Those are all reruns. We’ve seen them like a million times.”

Marcus turns his head sharply to me. “You were literally just watching a rerun of a game played four years ago.”

“I know that, Marcus. But I haven’t seen it before.”

It’s late in the day, almost midnight. I finished my yoga practice a couple of hours ago, and I was feeling peaceful and centered. I’d like to keep it that way. This time of day is for winding down, not being wound up. Marcus is a night owl and often pops over late. I usually don’t mind because I love his company, but recently, I’ve started thinking it might be better if he comes over earlier and leaves me to do my hockey-watching in private.

“Are you still going next door every day to take him a coffee?” he asks, trying and failing to remove the judgment from his voice.

“No. Not every single day.”

It’s true. Kind of. I didn’t take him coffee last Tuesday because I had an early yoga class that I couldn’t reschedule. I did pop in that afternoon to give him a handwritten note with the name and number of the best curtain person in all of Seattle on it. I decide not to mention that to Marcus because he gives me the faintest of smiles and says, “We can watch the rest of the game if you really want to.”

I rest my head on the back of the sofa and settle in. Watching the game without fast-forwarding at all is a different experience entirely. I realize immediately that I’ve been missing out on so much. When Ben’s not playing, he’s on the bench with the rest of his teammates. He’s the captain of the Blackeyes, which means he’s like the main man of the whole team, so while he’s on the bench, he talks to the other players, telling them what their plan of attack should be and what he wants them to do next. Not in a dickhead way, but in an I want you to succeed, and here’s how you do it way. It’s hot.

When he first gets to the bench and takes a seat, he’s breathing harder than normal from exerting himself on the ice. He has his helmet on and his hair is damp with sweat. I know that because tiny locks peek out at the back of his neck and curl up. He rests his stick against one leg, with his legs splayed open. He smiles and nods when he talks to his teammates, taking the time to make each one feel seen. Their responses are always the same.

“Yes, Captain!”

“On it, Captain!”

“Got it, Captain!”

There’s something about the way they say it that gets me. Something grateful. Something that looks almost like relief. Like rightness. Correctness. Like they know they don’t need to worry because there’s someone in charge who knows more than they do. Someone they can trust. Someone they look up to.

I’ve met enough self-proclaimed alpha men in my time that the mere thought of those two words in proximity to each other makes me feel unwell. That’s not what Ben is. He isn’t self-proclaimed. He’s a rare case. A true case. A man who stands apart from other men because that’s how he was born. A man who stands head and shoulders above other men, not because he put himself there but because they put him there. Because they wanted him to lead, and they wanted to follow.

On the screen, the game stops for intermission. That’s when all the players go off the ice and head to the locker rooms to shower together and have a little towel-flicking fight or something like that. It’s a way of boosting morale and increasing team spirit.

Hmm , mind you, maybe not. Intermission is only eighteen minutes, so they probably don’t have time for all that. They probably save boosting morale and increasing team spirit for after the game.

When the players come out for the start of the third period, I take the scatter cushion from behind my back and place it over my lap. History has taught me this is the best way for me to watch this part of hockey when I’m with others.

Ben has his stick and one of his gloves in one hand and his water bottle in the other. As he glides onto the ice, he raises the bottle to his lips. He tilts his head back and sprays water into his mouth without touching the spout. A steady stream of liquid leaves the bottle and enters his body. He swallows at leisure. His Adam’s apple works slowly—visible protrusion moving up his throat, bobbing, and then gliding down again. When he’s swallowed his last sip, he rights his head, adjusting his posture so he’s leaning slightly forward. He cracks a smile that reaches through the screen, takes me firmly by the balls, and squeezes hard. He closes his eyes, spraying a little spritz of water on his face. He laughs and shakes his head from side to side as he does it.

It’s a lot.

He’s not done though. Not even close.

He raises his right hand, the one without the glove, and swipes a thick palm and long fingers over his face. Forehead to chin.

The camera work is on point . It really is. The cameraman knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t miss a thing. He’s following Ben’s every movement, zoomed in so close I can see each individual lash knit together when he blinks.

Ben is still smiling, but the smile is different now. It’s changed. It’s almost menacing. Almost threatening. He hands his water bottle to a teammate on the bench and looks at the goal the same way he looks at the opposing center during a face-off. His eyes are open but narrowed. His gaze is fixed on the net as he commits the size, shape, and placement of the rectangular steel frame around it to memory.

When he’s done, he chuckles softly. Then he flicks his fingers at the goal. It’s a decisive action that sends a million tiny crystalline droplets into the air.

It’s his ritual. His habit. His way of making magic.

My eyelids slide to half-mast, and I tighten my grip on the cushion on my lap.

“Oh God ,” I murmur prayerfully.

“Ugh,” says Marcus. “I’m beat. Think I’ll head home.”

Ben’s ritual doesn’t appear to affect Marcus the way it affects me. It seems he’s as immune to it as Ben is to Luca’s pout. Me on the other hand, well, I had to have a little lie down the first time I saw it.

The second time too.

Come to think of it, I might have another one now.