Three

THREE

REN

Nearing the end of the first period, Felton has let in three goals. ! Most of the time, that's more than he lets in throughout an entire game. Combined with some shitty penalties that were both deserved and not deserved, we're feeling frustrated.

After the third, I skate to Felton before taking my spot. When he turns from getting a drink, his mask already lowered, I grab the bars of it and bring his face to mine. I can see that he's stressed. There's a lot going on in his eyes and I'm not entirely sure that it has to do with the game tonight.

"Come back, Fel," I say. "Stay with me. No more pucks in the net. I know you can do this."

Felton's lips press together. I'd think that he's going to snap back about defense being where they need to be—which he's not wrong about—but I can also see that as I spoke, something kind of… melts away. He takes a breath, his eyes clear, and he gives me a tight nod.

I let him go and slide backwards a little. "You good?"

"Yeah," he says. "Thanks. I needed that."

I'm not sure exactly what he needed, but I nod. I slap my stick against his, giving him a little of my good mojo—not all of it because I need it for myself—but definitely some. He gives me a grin and I skate off.

Two more attempts on goal are made against us, but Felton is there. One he slaps away with his stick and the other he catches in a rather impressive show of reflexes.

Then we're ushered off the ice for the first intermission. While I know these intermissions are for our health and give us time to catch our breath, it also allows us to get stuck in our heads. It makes our bodies cool down. It gives us time to become discouraged and disgruntled, pointing sticks at everyone who needs to up their game.

I'm thankful no one points theirs at Felton. He's in an interesting mood. I didn't pay much attention to him before the game, so I'm not completely sure that it's the game that sent him into a funk. If I were a betting man, I'd say that it was something that had nothing to do with the game and he showed up to the rink that way.

Whatever it is, he seems to be out of it now. He's not his normal loud and rowdy self, but there aren't storm clouds in his eyes right now. He's smiling as he talks to Willits and Dasan. That's something.

I pay a lot of attention to my teammates. Their mental mindsets dictate their game and watching them gives me an idea of what kind of game play we're going to have when they're on the ice. It tells me whether I need to be more aggressive when protecting the defensive zone or if they're going to be big fighters in that game.

Our team is pretty mellow as far as teams go. We jive reasonably well on and off the ice. We're not all necessarily friends, but as far as I can tell, there's no tension or bad feelings or bitterness. The only competition is what's required of ourselves, knowing that at any time, even our teammates can take our place.

But we play well together. Celebrate each other's wins and accomplishments. We also came together in a time of tragedy when a teammate lost his brother in a helicopter accident at the end of last season. It was rough on him, which was to be expected.

I'm not insanely close with my brother, but I'd be devastated if he'd died like that. Hell, if he died at all.

The second period is filled with what feels like more penalties than actual game time. I'll say that at least the penalties are spread out between us and Anaheim. Even their captain, Hollinger Kearney, is in the sin bin more than once. Looking furious at the call but silent as he sits and waits, sipping on the water bottle that's in there.

Neither team scores. There's a fight between Anaheim's Imonovich and Zenia that probably didn't need to happen right in the last few seconds, which will carry over into the next period. Zenia is still fuming over it when we get into the locker room.

"Let it go, mate," Denny says as he takes a seat on the bench. He's sweaty when he takes his helmet off. We all are. "It's a double penalty, so we're both down to start. No power play. We're fine."

"It's fucking stupid. That damn Russian is quick to fight over nothing," he says, scowling at the floor.

"Your American temper is just as quick," Marion says. He has such a quiet, smooth Greek accent that causes the entire room to hush when he speaks so they can listen. It has a strange calming effect that makes me smile.

"That trip was an accident," Zenia says. "I even fucking apologized just after!"

"Game is game," Denny says. "Let it go."

Zenia scowls as he falls to the bench and brushes his hair back with his hand. He meets my eyes, lips pursed. I shrug, offering no opinion.

Fighting is part of the game. The best thing to do is simply walk away. Which he did. His penalty was for tripping.

I glance at Felton, finding him leaning back into his cubby with his eyes closed. He's bouncing his stick back and forth, hitting the tops of his skates. I don't think much of it at first except that I realize his eyes are closed. Like, truly closed. He's just hitting his feet, mentally knowing exactly where his limbs are in space without having to look for hand-eye coordination.

Fucking goalies, man.

We return to the ice and the last period is much faster paced. The puck is probably going to be bruised by the way it's being hit. Because Anaheim is playing more aggressively, I keep my position close to the net, only going so far as the first blue line, making myself a second barrier before Felton is required to truly defend.

It's not always an effective way to play since it makes pairing up uneven at the other end. But with their ridiculous shot attempts and Felton's mood at the beginning of the game, combined with their amped up playing style now, I think it's probably a good idea.

The puck comes flying back this way, but before it gets too close, the linesman blows the whistle and it's called for icing.

Imonovich parks himself next to me, setting his stick on the ice in front of mine. I let him. Because I'm a couple feet outside of Felton's zone, I can back up when I need to and get out from behind him.

The puck drops and I slide backwards, before shoving around Imonovich and grabbing the puck to bring to behind the net. The teams back away and I toss it toward Dasan. He catches it but loses it when Minden steals it back and makes a long shot on goal. I shift, but Imonovich is in my way.

Felton is back on his game though because he blocks it. While the puck is back in motion, one of Anaheim's forwards slides into Felton's blue zone and starts slapping Felton's stick. He shoves it at Felton, who grabs it and doesn't let it go.

The whistle blows, but not before I break away and barrel into the asshole harassing our goalie. I'm not often a fighter. There's never any trash talk on my end. There are those in the league on different teams who think I don't even speak English since I never lower myself to their bait.

But I'm feeling protective tonight, especially considering Felton's mood earlier. I'm joined a minute later by Willits and Dasan and then all the players on the ice collide as the refs try to break it up.

So much of hockey is a mental game. Goaltending seems to be a different mental state entirely. So intentionally messing with a goalie is really fucking low. It's dirty playing. Anaheim is so worried about their inability to get the puck in the goal that they have to drop to dirty plays.

The fight splits and the dick who I'm not familiar with gets ushered to the sin bin, leaving us in a power play. We're at Anaheim, so the crowd is unhappy right now. Fuck all of them.

We manage to score two goals during the power play, which ties the game. I glance up at the clock as I head for the bench when I see the asshat in the sin bin return to his box once the penalty is over. There's two minutes left.

I witness some shit while I sit on the bench and silently fume. Felton drops into a crouch, glove and stick on the ground, poised as another player I'm not familiar with comes to a stop in front of him, spraying him with powder.

For his part, Felton is unphased. Honestly, I doubt he even realized it happened. The man is in the zone. Before another fight can break out over it, Anaheim's captain shoves their player away. I'm not sure what's up with Anaheim tonight, but every time Felton makes a save, Anaheim is furious.

Felton is sitting on the puck, holding it while the refs break up the fight. Eventually, he gets up, bringing the puck with him. He swings around his goal, balancing the puck on his stick as he looks through the boards.

There's a kid there, maybe eight or ten, jumping. Felton nods, eyes the top and the net as he gets ready to toss it up when fucking Imonovich skates by and swipes it from his stick.

Felton turns and follows, but Imonovich tosses the puck aside as Denny and Dasan gently push Felton back.

I'll tell you what, the most rewarding moment of the game is the score we get on Gibbon with thirty-three seconds left. Anaheim is pissed, but their goalie at least just shrugs it off. At least someone over there knows that it's not personal.

The last thirty-three seconds is our team playing keep away. We aren't necessarily trying for another goal but just trying to keep the puck in our possession as we stay in Anaheim's zone. When the buzzer sounds, our team turns away from a furious Anaheim.

"They weren't like that last year," Denny says at my side as I get to my feet.

"They have a new coach," Nason Jordan says. "I'm not sure if it's his playing style or his lack of control over the team, but yeah. Something is up with them. They're getting Tampa ugly."

"We don't play them again for a while, do we?" Denny asks.

"I don't think we play them at all unless they make the playoffs," I say, trying to recall the schedule. I don't memorize all eighty-odd games, but Anaheim isn't in our division, so we generally only play them once or twice in the regular season.

"Good. I'd like to smash that asshole's face into the ice," Willits says.

Felton is just going through the boards to the chute, and I pause to watch as he stops at the side where there's a kid on the bench holding an orange Anaheim jersey. Felton, with his helmet pushed up on his head like a hat, says something and the kid grins hugely and nods. He points to the ice and says something, making Felton laugh. Felton hands him his stick and the boy bursts into tears as he throws his arms around Felton's neck.

A man who I presume is the kid's father stands behind him with a smile.

Felton winks at the kid before moving down the chute. As I walk by, the kid is wiping his eyes and saying, "He's the nicest player ever."

My teammates and I share a smile as we follow Felton down the chute.

"What'd he say?" Marion asks as he pulls his jersey over his head. "The kid."

"I asked if he saw my last save," Felton says as he drops to the bench. "He nodded. Then he said the other team was crummy because they hit me with their sticks."

I grin.

"It's really sad when a little boy knows the team he's here to see is playing dirty," Dasan says.

No doubt about that.

Coach talks to us about the game and follows up as we strip off our gear. We're up in L.A. in two days, so we're not even switching hotels. I'm only half listening as my stomach growls. Didn't I eat before I got here?

I'm only aware Coach has left the locker room when Zenia asks, "Wanna go out tonight?"

While I know he's not code-wording for a gang bang since Carson and Kroy aren't here, that's still code for he's looking to hook up and wants wingmen.

"Actually, I'm famished for some reason," I say. "I'm going to grab some food and go to bed. You two are on your own tonight."

"Lame," he and Denny chime together.

The whole team is on the bus an hour later and heading back to the hotel. Because of the time, I settle for getting food in the hotel restaurant. As I'm eating at a table, I watch Felton wander through the lobby.

He's on the phone and doesn't look happy. His shoulders are tense and his lips are pressed into a line. He paces back and forth, never speaking at all. When he hangs up, he stops moving and lets his head fall backward as his chest fills, taking a deep breath.

Then he heads for the elevator and disappears from sight.

Maybe he's having trouble at home? But then, I don't think he's involved with someone. It's not that we all announce relationships or anything, but Felton is one of the leagues' ‘token gay men,' so the world tends to know when they get involved with someone. As far as I can recall, there's been nothing on social media. Not the most reliable source of accurate information, but they generally have the news first—true or false.

I remind myself that he's not my responsibility. Whatever's going on with him, unless he's asking for help, it's not my job to worry. So I turn my attention back to my food.