Playing the Field: Faceoff

Playing the Field: Faceoff By J.M. Snyder The hockey puck slides easily into the goal, setting off both the strobe light behind the goalie and the meager crowd that goes wild as Christian Magdziuk skids to a stop on the ice. The game isn’t thirty seconds old and already he’s put the Bedford Blizzard on the board. As the sirens wail around him, the announcer plays a rousing chorus of “Who Let the Dogs Out” to get the crowd rocking. “What a play!” a faceless voice calls out over the ice. “Looks like the Magic is back in R-R-R-R-Richmond!” Christian raises his hockey stick in triumph, but the fanfare dies down quickly. He is on the visiting team, after all. The momentum of his shot has carried him around the back of the goal—on the other side, his teammate, Gordon Burle, barrels into him. Beneath his face mask, Burle is beaming. “Great shot!” he yells. With a quick grin, Christian skates for the players’ bench. His team is lined up, hands out, to congratulate him. As he skates down the line, slapping hands with each in turn, he risks a glance behind him at the opposing team’s players. The Richmond Rebels, Christian’s former teammates, glare at him from across the ice. Only one man doesn’t watch him, and no matter how hard Christian stares at his old friend, Rebel Ronnie Niedermeyer never bothers to look his way. Burle bumps into Christian, propelling him away from the box and back out onto the ice. “Positions,” he hollers to corral the rest of the team. “We still have another minute or so on the ice.” As Christian glides to a stop in the center of the rink, he glances over at Ronnie, whose dark, shaggy hair has been brusquely pushed back out of his ice-blue eyes. Twin spots of color dot his cheeks, either from the cold coming in off the rink or from some heated emotion, Christian doesn’t know. His old friend’s chin rests in one large hand, and his forefinger is caught between ruddy lips as he gnaws on his nail. He’s studiously watching the goalie anchor the net back into place, and ignores Christian. Look at me, Christian wants to say. It’s only been a few scant months since he left the Rebels. Do his former teammates still hold against him the trade that sent him to the Blizzard? Does Ronnie hate him now, after all they had been to each other? Behind him, the referee blows a whistle to call the players together. Christian hunches over his stick, waiting for the puck to drop. Facing off against him is Eric Latimer, a man who used to invite Christian and the rest of the Rebels over for beers after practice. One look into Eric’s hard gaze and Christian can tell those fun memories are eating Eric up inside. Cautiously, Christian ventures, “Hey, Eric.” Eric’s eyes narrow in anger. “You got lucky with that shot, Magic. Live it up, eh? It’s the last puck you’ll sink tonight.” Christian laughs. “Who’s gonna stop me? You?” “Wait until Ronnie gets on the ice.” Eric knocks Christian’s stick with his, as if challenging him to say something. “He’s always been faster than you.” Ronnie won’t even look at me. Christian glances over at the player’s box. Sure enough, Ronnie’s gaze is elsewhere. Christian frowns in consternation. Look at me! How can the guy face off against him if he won’t even acknowledge his presence? Beside him, Eric mutters, “The Magic I knew never needed an assist to score.” Christian elbows Eric to silence him. “Shut up.” Eric shoves back, hard, knocking Christian off-balance. To keep from falling, Christian drops his stick and grabs twin fistfuls of Eric’s shirt. With both hands full, he leaves himself open for attack. Eric presses his advantage—he pummels Christian’s stomach, each punch a glancing blow through the layers of padding he wears, but the uncompromising look in Eric’s eyes hurts more than he cares to admit. They were friends once, or teammates at least. Christian hasn’t forgotten this. Apparently, it means little to Eric. Christian closes in, giving Eric no room to maneuver. They skate around each other wildly, helmets butting together like antlers locked in battle. The ref holding the puck scoots back, out of their way, but doesn’t interrupt their tussle. Around them, the crowd starts up a familiar chant, “Fight. Fight. Fight.” This is what they came to see—for some fans, this is what hockey’s all about. Christian gets Eric’s shirt up around his neck and manages to get in two good jabs right under his ribs before he’s pulled away. Eric swings as they separate—Christian takes the hit in the gut, and leverages himself on the arms that hold him to kick out with one leg. The dull blade of his skate slices through Eric’s pants at the thigh, causing the crowd to gasp as one. He’ll get extra time in the penalty box for that, but he’s headed there anyway. No one heard the s**t Eric said, so the refs will think Christian started the fight. He kicks out again. Might as well get in trouble for something good. This time, his leg comes nowhere near Eric, who is being led away by two of his teammates. As Christian strains to loosen himself from whoever it is holding him back, he calls out, “f**k you, Latimer. Where do you get off—” “You already have five for fighting,” Burle mutters in his ear. “Want to get kicked out of the game entirely? Keep talking. They’ll pull you and you know it.” Christian stops struggling, and Burle lets him go. With his most menacing stare, Christian pins his former teammate with a look so fierce, he’s surprised Eric has the courage to skate away from it. Burle hooks one arm around Christian’s and leads him to the penalty box as Eric returns to his bench. For the briefest moment, Ronnie Niedermeyer looks up from his fastidious study of his fingernails to meet Christian’s gaze. “Ronnie,” Christian sighs. He tries to skate closer, to read what might be written behind those cold eyes, but Burle keeps a tight hold on his arm and, before Christian can free himself, Ronnie turns away.