The Sound of Ice

14

I sprint down the ice, my heart pounding furiously, the puck pressed against my stick. An Otter player barrels towards me and I dodge around him. I can hear the roar of the stands engulfed around me, a sea of red and blue. I keep my eyes on the goalie.

The Otter player is back, the number 90 etched on his jersey. He's trying to press me against the boards as Luke opens up to my right. I pass the puck and break away towards the net, the goalie turned to face Luke. Luke passes back to me and I tip the puck in the net. 

The fans go crazy as my teammates holler around me. I know I'm smiling. I chew on my mouthguard and glance at the stands.

I think Mom's at work, and Veronica has a babysitting job, but both Sam and Hailey are here, which is nice. I wonder where they're sitting. I wonder if they're proud of me. 

During the first intermission in the locker room, Coach is maybe the happiest he's been all season. "That was great hockey," he says, waving his hand around to enunciate. "Just great. This is how we should always be playing. Craley, good saves."

I run a hand through my sweaty hair and nudge Ethan beside me on the bench.

"Thank you," Ethan says. 

"And Beckett, way to get to the net. Watch that number 90, he likes to stick to you."

"I will," I say. Ethan glances at me and I flash him a grin. I'm almost jumpy with adrenaline.

Coach claps his hands. "Okay boys, let's keep this lead. Don't let them back in this game. Let's go."

The noise in the arena is even louder than it was before. Fans bang on the clear wall separating the ice from the stands as the ref drops the puck. I take off down the ice, breathing in the sweet smell of sweat and excitement.

Julian Rodge is scuffling for the puck against the boards with an Otters player. I open myself up, hoping he can get the puck to me. It clips against his stick and goes sailing down the ice, and I lunge for it.

I feel nauseous. I think I'm going to throw up. My helmet is pressed against the cold ice. Everything is spinning and my ankle really, really hurts. My hearing is muffled. I think the ref blows a whistle and I try to breathe. 

"Beckett?" I feel nauseous. I blink my vision into focus and try to stand, gasping and biting down hard on my lip. I taste blood. My ankle hurts. 

"Is it your ankle?" The trainer is bent over beside me, and I see number 90 guiltily skating towards the penalty box. He tripped me with his stick, that son of a -

"Can you stand?" The roar is the stands makes me wince. They're mad at 90. No, please, please, no. I cannot get hurt. I cannot get hurt. Everything is spinning. 

"I think so." The words taste funny in my mouth. The trainer helps me stand. I don't put pressure on my right foot. Please no. I cannot get hurt.

My teammates are circling around the ice, giving me space, but watching me intently. The trainer helps me off the rink. I try to set my right foot down on the ground again but tears spring to my eyes. No! Please, no. 

In the trainer's office, I sit on the desk with my leg outstretched as he unties my laces. He gives me a bottle of Gatorade, which helps with the nauseousness. My ankle is swollen. Very swollen.

The trainer looks up at me with a neutral face that I can't read and starts pressing against my ankle. "Does this hurt?"

I nearly scream, and instead squeeze my eyes and take a shuddered breath. "Um, yeah."

"How about here?" He slides his fingers down an inch.

"Y-yeah."

"Alright, we're going to ice this until the swelling goes down, okay?" The trainer scoops ice from a bucket into a plastic bag and gently tapes it around my ankle. 

I wince against the cold. "When can I play? Can I go back out?"

"Not today, that's for sure." The trainer finishes taping my ankle.

"When? Soon?"

"I'm not sure -"

"What's wrong with my ankle? Is it broken? I have Worlds in just a little over a month."

The trainer frowns sympathetically and shrugs. "It seems like a sprain to me. You'll have to go to the hospital tomorrow and get it X-rayed." 

"Okay." I take a deep breath and rub my face. How many minutes ago was I playing? Three? Four? I blink, taking in the dark room crammed with medical and training supplies, inspirational posters lining the walls. Just breathe, one of them says. Well, fuck that. I cannot get hurt. I am hurt. I want to beat the shit out of number 90. 

"There's an extra pair of crutches in the hallway," says the trainer. "I'll be right back." Crutches? Crutches? No, no, no no no. I can't afford to get hurt now. My entire future depends on this season, everything that's happening right now, and I can't walk around on crutches and watch the rest of my team play while I'm on the bench, I can't afford that, I need to play this season if I want a future at all and hockey is the only thing I can do!

The trainer walks back in, raising his eyebrows at my choppy breathing, and hands me a pair of crutches. They're metal and they look uncomfortable. I take them hesitantly.

"Listen to the doctors and you'll be okay in no time," says the trainer, smiling at me like we're best buds. "Sorry this had to happen."

I can't afford this. "Thanks for your help," I say. 

~

I'm sitting on the bench in front of Coach, trying not to lose my shit. 

"Hockey is a contact sport. People get hurt, it happens," says Coach, but his arms are crossed and he sounds pissed. Ethan told me he cursed out number 90 earlier. That dirty little shit. We ended up losing the game. 

"I guess," I say.

"You're going to be fine. It doesn't seem too serious."

"I'll be fine in time for Worlds, right?"

Coach tugs at his tie and shrugs. "Whatever happens, happens."

"Not making me feel better, Coach."

He smiles sadly and shrugs again. "That's the sport. Get lots of rest, listen to your doctors, and you'll be back in no time."

I rub at my face and stifle a groan. "Okay, Coach." Jesus, my ankle hurts. 

What am I supposed to do now?