We had a chance, the puck heading toward a very determined Stan, and when the puck dribbled free of a mess of men hassling for it in the corner, I caught it on my stick, shuttled it back to Alex, and took up position near the net, ready for a tip-in, if Alex managed to pass it to Tate through a tight Railers’ defense. I didn’t remember much past Tate collecting the disc of rubber on his stick then flexing back for what was going to be one of his famed slap shots. It felt as if the entire Railers’ arena was frozen in time and the expectation was real.
Tate let the puck fly just as a D-man got pushed into my space and made me stumble out of position.
The puck slammed into my mask at one hundred miles an hour, which even with the padding I wore, freaking hurt. At the last moment I’d been shoved into the wrong place at the wrong time by an overenthusiastic Adler Lockhart, and the fact that the missile came off a fast-as-fuck slapshot from Tate Collins just added insult to injury. I went down onto the ice like a felled tree, my skates going from under me, my entire body sliding onwards into the boards, thankfully side-first.
My first thought, after the initial pain and stars, was that Jacob and my mom were watching this live on television, not to mention Dad at the Railers’ bench. Even as my team and the medic crowded around me, I waved a hand to let people know I was okay. They’d have seen me go down and it would be an awful reminder of what had happened to Ten.
“I’m okay,” I said to the nearest person I could find, but I must have been speaking in tongues, because it was Tate crouching right there and he was frowning. “I’m okay,” I repeated. Ten was there as well, I saw his worried expression and gave him a weak smile.
We need to get him off the ice, can he move?
Do we need to get a stretcher?
No fucking way was I being dragged off this ice lying on my damn back. I rolled onto my side, my brain shaken, eyes hurting, and felt as though I was going to vomit. I didn’t know where the puck had hit me, but I could taste the iron saltiness of blood, and I pulled up a fist to cover my mouth, my tongue worrying at a loose tooth.
Oh well, I guess if I had to lose a tooth it had to be at the hands of the league player with the second fastest slapshot on record. People moved to help me stand, Tate on one side, repeating the word shit over and over, and Alex on the other. Between them holding me, and my own stubborn Madsen determination, I made it to the exit past the bench and even acknowledged the stick taps against the boards from both teams. I glanced a look at Dad who seemed way too pale, his lips thin and his brow creased in worry. I gave him a brief nod, as the crowd clapped and hollered their respect. It was bloodthirsty, but fans loved the drama of a good puck to the mouth, and respected a player for taking the beating and blood loss. Go figure.
I made it all the way into the tunnel, far from prying eyes, where Alex and Tate had handed me off to Raptors medical staff, plus the on-site Railers’ medics.
“Talk to me,” Eddie demanded as I shook off my gloves and pretended everything was okay. Eddie was our traveling medic, the one who spoke directly to management and coaches and the same one who could can a guy for losing blood. Not that I wanted to lose blood.
“I need to call Jacob,” I said although the words were garbled, and the pain was kicking into overdrive.
My tongue slipped over the loose tooth and it wobbled free, and I held my hand under my chin as it fell out, along with way too much blood. This was my first tooth lost to hockey, and I guess it had a story to go with it. I could tell my grandkids how the famous Tate Collins had used me for target practice, and they’d be all goggle-eyed as Jacob ruffled my now gray curls and told them not to listen to Grandpa Ryker’s war stories.
Okay, I’m losing my shit here.
They took me through concussion protocol, gave me four stitches for the split lip, and packed my tooth in a baggie and put it into my locker. I didn’t know what they wanted me to do with it, maybe immortalize it as the-tooth-that-Tate-knocked-out or something equally stupid.
Is it just me or is it hot in here?
“I want to go back out,” I slurred, whatever pain meds they gave me were twisting their way around my words, and I felt tired.
“You’re done, Ryker,” Eddie said, not unkindly.
“Did the game finish?” We were in overtime, right?
Eddie sighed. “The puck hit you and then hit the pipes. When they restarted, the Railers had momentum. They scored.”
“That’s shit.” I placed a hand to my cheek—I’d taken a puck to the mouth for no reason. I’d have to make an appointment with the team surgeon, get some X-rays on my jaw, but first I needed to make sure my mom knew in case she was still worried. The entire Raptors team trooped in, on a low from losing, and I slipped into the corridor before they could talk to me, still sweaty and in uniform, my skates the only thing I’d taken off, apart from my gloves.
As I expected there was a text from my mom asking for details, which I replied to straight away, reassuring her I’d lost a tooth but it was okay. She sent back a thumbs-up but she was a hockey daughter, a former hockey wife, and mom to me, so she knew the score. Teeth never lasted long in hockey, but thankfully this was one at the back and my sometimes-vain self could handle that.
I didn’t see a message from Jacob to say that he’d seen the incident and was worried, so I sent him a text, and messages in the other apps we had going on, but there was no sign he was online. Maybe he’d turned off after I got knocked down and… and what? He said he was going to be watching, but I guess he’d fallen asleep over work again. At least he’d see the messages in the morning so I wasn’t too worried.
“Hey,” Dad said from the corridor behind me, poking his head outside the Railers locker room door.
“Hey,” I forced a ton of enthusiasm into that single word.
“How many?” he asked.
“Just the one,” I gave weak jazz hands.
“N’awww,” came Ten’s voice, and he poked his head around the corner by Dad. “My baby lost his first tooth.”
“Fuck off, asshole,” I said with a smile, and then gave Ten the finger.
Ten fake-clutched his pearls. “Kids these days,” he said in a falsetto and batted his lashes.
Dad shoved him back into the room and followed him with a wave. At least they had a win to discuss. I went back into the locker room, expecting it to be into the middle of a tirade from Coach Carmichael, but it was calm in there and I took my spot.
Coach had left the speech for me to arrive and we all looked at him expectantly.
“Now what you played there,” he indicated toward the door that led to the tunnel. “That was the best hockey I’ve seen from you this season. Keep it up.”
He walked out of the room and Colorado shook his head. “Seems to me, Ryker, you need to lose a tooth every game just so we play right.” Everyone stared at him, then at me, and then the laughing started and we didn’t stop for a long time.
By the time the plane landed back in Tucson I was done. My jaw wasn’t fractured, but I had a doozy of a black eye, and a throbbing pain I had to live with if I didn’t want to give into the temptation of the stronger drugs. I’d seen enough of my dad’s generation hooked on painkillers to know what effect that had, and had talked at length with Dieter whenever he was at one of Dad’s Summer barbecues. He’d struggled with an addiction to pain pills, and I knew how easy it was to get sucked into the cycle of pain relief.