Heal the Heart

19.

I was more nervous about sitting and watching a hockey game with Beck than when he first said hello.

I wanted Beck to have a good time, to not have those haunted eyes. After the unfortunate end of my career, I never watched a cricket match in the stadium. I hadn't seen any of my former teammates live in action again. There was too much pain there. A constant buzz of why me and not them? I didn't want Beck to face the same.

Classes went by like a breeze. I took notes in some places and doodled in most, my hand shooting up only when roll call was taken. Work was hopeless, and I didn't pay attention to anyone who showed up today. Instead, I speed ran through YouTube videos at twice the speed, trying to understand what hockey was other than pushing rubber on ice and into a net. Nothing made sense. For starters, why was everyone trying to kill each other? And why did the fucking referee not blow his whistle when a dude quite literally went flying across the ice like a hawk doing a nosedive? And why did players change on the ice every ten seconds?

I didn't need to understand it all. Beck was just going to have to suffer through my insufferable barrage of questions.

I had expected there to be a crowd like last time and reached early. There was no crowd. The arena looked almost abandoned, in fact. I texted Beck I'm here.

Me too, he replied. Come in. I'll find you at the entrance.

True to his word, he caught me the moment I entered through the wide open metal doors. The stands were empty, lonely and pristine save for the onlookers scattered far and wide.

"Are we early?" I asked as he led us down, to the somewhat filled front rows overlooking the rink.

"Nope. Right on time. They'll probably start in another ten minutes or so—Fuck!" We both jumped when a puck slammed against the glass right in front of our faces. The shot was perfectly aimed. If the glass wasn't there, the puck would've straight up knocked Beck's teeth.

A player decked in our university colours skated backwards, a wide grin consuming most of his face.

"Ha Ha. Real funny, Levesque!" Beck raised both his middle fingers in the air and the perpetrator gave him a mock salute. "Fucking dick," Beck murmured.

"I thought there would be a bigger crowd," I said. The place was sparsely filled. None of the cheers and chants from last time lingered. Not even a single sign was held.

"This is the most we get."

"Really? The last time I was here, I couldn't hear myself think."

"Hmm? Maybe it was the opening game. We always have a huge home crowd for opening games. Or it was against the Voyageurs. Our universities have a longstanding rivalry. Not just in hockey, but in every sport. We athletes support the other sports by going to their games against them. Not for cheering our side or anything, but mostly for sledging the other team."

The warm up soon concluded and both teams stood in their positions, ready for the puck drop.

"Go, Tristan!" Beck cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. "Grab that rubber!"

I noticed the player right at the front of their formation. The one with the big 38 on his back who stood in stance facing the player from the opposite team, their helmets so close to touching.

38 snatched the puck the moment it grazed the ice and took off. He shot the puck to another forward; the forward faked a shot, passed it back to 38, and 38 went for it. From the corner of my eye, I found Beck at the edge of his seat, his eyes blown wide and bottom lip stuck between his teeth. 38 slapped the puck. But the goalie's pad stood in the way, and the puck slid conveniently to the opposing team.