Falling For You

Chapter 2

Ezra

The roar of fans in the arena penetrates the closed doors of the locker room. The booming of the loud speakers caters to the pre-show intro the technology team has tirelessly put into making our entrance appear like a movie. I'd seen the previews in recordings of our games.

A series of effects, that would mute the senses of any bystander, would take over. Providing two screens with preshow entertainment. Short clips of snarling bears, the fights between rhinos, the roar of a lion. The Allstate Arena was a jungle, a place where wild beasts were allowed to roam and that's exactly what my team came to do.

I shake out all the nerves tied up in my shoulders and let them loose. This is the first game of the preseason, and after a couple of years not making it to the playoffs we plan on starting off strong. Ready to dominate every team that steps on our ice.

"You alright man?" My best friend Henry asks.

I'm more than alright. My blood is thrumming with energy, my skin is tight with the chill of the ice that I know will melt the moment that puck hits the ice. 

"Yeah," I say, and Henry accepts that and goes around the locker room to amp up the team, a loud belly yell coming from his throat. Henry knows I'm not a man of many words, but knows if something was wrong I'd tell him. At least later.

Henry is the opposite of me. He's wild, and emphatic and makes everyone in the building light up with joy and laughter. I'm the opposite. People run when I get near. I don't mind it. I'm not great with people and I don't try to pretend I am.

I'd been playing for the Bears for nearly six years since I got out of college and played my rookie years in Florida, and in that time only Henry had been able to crack the perfectly lined-up walls I'd built around myself. The sneaky bastard. I didn't even see it coming. He was like a virus you couldn't shake.

Slipping off my glove, I dig into my locker for my jar of Vaseline, taking a healthy slab of it and rubbing it across my lips. If I don't do this continually my skin will crack like the Mojave desert and my little sister will mercilessly pick on me for it.

When the doors to the locker room open, I hear the yell of our assistant coach Grambly (our nickname for him though we could never figure out his real name) tells us to make our way to the benches. We knew the drill.

The lights would be off. And after a stunning visual show, each player would hop off the bench and man the ice. Tapping the end of my stick against my locker, I finish up my last pregame ritual, put my gloves back on, and linger behind the 2nd-4th line waiting for them to enter through to the ice.

One by one each line enters the arena. They'll be shadows skating among the darkness. My heart beats wildly in my chest. Not from fear or nervousness. No. This is what I lived for.  Hockey is why I breathe and when I don't play it makes my skin itch. That's what I'm feeling now as I wait for everyone to exit the locker room. I'm itching to be on the ice where I belong.

Our new right wing who would join Henry and I on the first line, Zayn, gives me a head nod and heads out to the ice. He appeared to be like me in the way he didn't talk much, but there was much more to Zayn that I'm sure once Henry pulled out he would be as cantankerous as the rest of the team. Following behind, I make my way to the door at the end of the bench designated for the players and join my team on the ice. That's when the show starts.

I wait behind the bench with the starting line while the rest of the team takes to the ice. A faint green light cuts on revealing the swirl of the Boston Bears as they scrape against the perfectly smoothed ice, punching their fists towards the crowd and shouting chants of war.