Penalty Kill

Harper

Licking the lingering salt and butter off my fingers, I watch with a fast-beating heart as the players skate back towards center ice for puck drop as soon as the national anthem wraps. My nerves and anxiety are at an all-time high after what I witnessed during pregame warmups.

Both teams had taken to their respective ends of the ice, as per usual, and as everyone started going through their own rituals and stretches, I looked on in horror as Jake very intentionally made his way to the red line at center ice—the very imaginary wall acting as the only barrier between two teams.

His path was clear—like a shark swimming to where there's blood in the water.

He casually skated right up to where Ned Slouk was talking with one of his teammates. It didn't shock me to find out that Ned's number is 69, and my eyes rolled seismically at the fact that the man has chosen to embody that he's an immature menace to every innocent person that has the misfortune of encountering him.

Jake kept his distance, staying on his designated end of the ice as he got Ned's attention with a few yells. Since Jake wasn't wearing a helmet, it was easy for me to see that his expression was far from affable as Ned turned to look over his shoulder. And although Ned was wearing a helmet with a visor, the shitty, cocky grin that spread across his face was visible even from where I was seated at the boards across the ice.

Their exchange was yelled across the feeble red line separating them, and with the way a few of Jake's teammates skated up and attempted to herd him back towards their goal, I knew the words being shared were not pleasantries by any means. Jake spat a few last retorts over his shoulder before finally turning his attention to his own side of the ice, rolling his neck from side to side after he turned away completely. The rest of his warm up was spent as far from the red line as possible, his teammates having created a very intentional barrier between Jake and Ned.

He's a different version of himself out there tonight, and it's tinging the evening with an unsettling combination of somber seriousness and the threat of near boiling-over rage. There's no smiles, no lighthearted goofiness with his teammates. Hell, he doesn't even acknowledge where I'm seated at the boards—where he's seated me. He's clearly intune with some inner wavelength I've not been exposed to before, and to say it's making me uneasy would be an understatement.

Taking my seat for puck drop, I carefully tuck my last second rush job of a sign by my feet for when he's in a better mood for actually reading it. Without easy access to a printer, I had to settle for something a bit more simple. Playing off of their team name, I drew a storm cloud with falling birds and number 57s, "Raining chirps and cellys" written next to it in big bubble letters.

Sure the whole purpose of the sign is contingent on the Storm scoring in general—and even more specifically Jake scoring—but it's the best I could do with what little time and tools I had at my disposal being a state away from home. Brushing rogue strands of my bangs out of my eyes, I turn my attention back to the ice and swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat.

Rubbing my hands anxiously on my jean-clad thighs, I watch as Jake takes his spot behind the three forwards. My eyes are trained on him as the ref skates between the two opposing centers out of my periphery, his striped back bent forward and ready to get the game started with the first face off. Jake's eyes should be trained on center ice, waiting to see who wins the battle for the puck.

But they're not.

Instead, his head is angled directly at where Ned Slouk is positioned across the ice from him. I hear the ref's whistle, and see a blur of motion as the two centers dip down to where the official is crouched, puck in hand. My hands grip my thighs as I hear sticks clash. The Storm win the face off, the puck sliding back towards their defensemen as players start to skate into position.