Our Angel Just Broke the Goalie’s Jaw

tatiana Shpakow

     The middle of first period and there is already blood on the ice. Just eleven minutes on the clock, a gasp from the crowd, and they’re standing, staring at me as I stay down on my knees—a high stick by one of the players on the other team, and something shattered like a broken nose. 

     Our captain, Liam, spews words at the ref, his mouthguard in his gloved hand. They are across the rink, and with the crowd as loud as they were, I can’t hear his words. I can only watch him corner the ref. He’s arguing for a longer penalty, no doubt, gesturing wildly to his nose, a mime of the blood the other drew from mine. My uniform, once eggshell yellow, is red-streaked and ruined. I pull off my helmet, dropping it to the ice. The only girl on the team is injured, I hope for them to be saying. I pride myself on the reputation of being good enough to play with them. I stagger up from my knees and wipe my nose. The boy who did it skates over to the pair, coming to a hard stop on the other side of the rink to join the conversation. They get in each other’s faces—much to the delight of the crowd—until the referee puts a hand on both of their chests and pushes them away from one another. Then, the ref skates out to the ice and announces the two-minute penalty. 

     We live in a state most people only think exist on postcards. We drive around the Sandia mountains when they turn pink. We sit in Mexican restaurants and ask for Christmas instead of Red or Green chili. We watch as balloons light up the morning sky. We never talk about the weather because we never have to. But New Mexico isn’t always like that. Old tennis shoes are tied together and thrown over power lines. The cane cholla cactus stands as tall as the boys on the team. Our homes are the seedy bowling alleys after midnight. In the Valley, our favorite pastime is running into 7/11 and buying gallons of Monster energy and pounds of beef jerky strips before the alcoholic clerk, Jeremy, can ask me for my number for the 22nd time that week. My answer is always the same. “Maybe if you give me a pack of cigarettes,” I smirk. He always does. I never take a cigarette out of the pack. I draw on the box, and leave the cigarettes in a bouquet next to the gas pump. “It’s fitting for a funeral,” Liam says as we pull away onto Wyoming Boulevard. He should know—his father died of lung cancer. 

     I draw skulls on the box. 

     That box would be propped up on his casket, along with his helmet, a year later. 

     We are in something of a grid-lock. Coach Brett is shouting from the bench, yelling that we are wasting time, but neither of us give the other an inch of room. I hear the boy let out a yell of frustration. Finally, he takes his stick into one hand, controlling the puck, while the other acts as a blocker, keeping my team back. He glides down the ice, pulling the puck back towards him. I move, cutting him off. I barely have to touch it for it to redirect towards the goal. It passes the goalie’s glove. The goal horn blares, and the game is over.

     Liam shouts, throwing his hands up, and the bench goes wild. The other boys slam me into the boards in celebration, and we tap our helmets until we have whiplash. When I come by the bench, gloved hand out to bump against each guys’ fist down the boards, I catch Liam’s eye and hold it for the entire time, rather than look at who is congratulating me. Trevor. Evan. Logan. Luc. Jack. Wayne. Gabe. Jace. I pull off my helmet and drop it, hugging our captain. He leans in and we press our foreheads together. 

     We drive to meet the rest of the team for a midnight breakfast at Weck's. None of us are the biggest fans of Denny's or IHOP, mainly because we run into the theater kids, and they usually shriek songs or run dance numbers in the booths. Weck's closes after noon, so we go to IHOP instead. The theatre kids keep to themselves. The hockey team talks about the many girls they had hooked up with since the beginning of our season. When asked names, they shake their heads and say, "You wouldn't know them." At 4am, on our side of the booth, I fall asleep on Liam's shoulder, snoring. The other guys pour sugar down my throat, and I wake up in a coughing fit. The boys burst into laughter. The sound of their barking laughter sounds like home. We say our goodbyes. Liam drives me home and parks at the mouth of the street. I jump backyard fences and fall asleep in my neighbor's yard. A drooly-mouthed Rottweiler wakes me up, panting in my ear. "Liam?" I ask before I recognize him as Spud, the neighbour’s dog. I never tell Liam that he is the first thing I think of when I wake up. 

     Liam sits in the locker room, shirtless, knees spread to accommodate the stick he is taping between them. He doesn't have any of his pads on yet. This is typical of him. I tell everyone that he always dresses after the rest of the team because he spends so much time on stretching and stick-taping. I found out later it was because he was ready at a moment's notice to give up his uniform in case anyone forgot theirs. He has a Red Wings hat on backward, and stray strands of blonde hair are sticking out of the front, casting shadows on his cheeks. He sticks his tongue out and winds the tape carefully around the blade of his stick, checking for wrinkles and creases every other turn. Trevor is saying something to him with broad hand gestures. A play he wants to get perfect tonight. I want to tell him he looks beautiful. "Liam," I call from the door. I try to balance on my skates. "Do good, okay?" He nods. Those words will have to do. Jack leaves. We sit down on the bench together and hold hands. Wordlessly, he kisses over my wrapped knuckles. 

     Liam laughs from the driver's side and I sink lower into the passenger seat. I messed up the lyrics again to his favorite song. I practiced on my way to school that morning, played the song on repeat until I could feel the imprint from my tapping along to the beat on the steering wheel. I notice for the first time that his nose is crooked. There is a wooden baseball bat in his backseat, chipped with stories he hasn't told me yet. A blanket is thrown underneath the front seat for times he goes stargazing after practice. In his trunk are five things, and only after his death would I become familiar with these objects. A first aid kit. A flashlight. His father's lighter. Flares. All of the cigarette boxes I drew on.

     "Did you see my goal? Did you see me steal it from Coop?" I am elbowed in the ribs, right where my pads end above my hockey pants. I grunt and narrow my eyes. Liam doesn't dare to hit me in the chest. I understand what he is trying to say. "Get back out there." He shoves me. I roll my eyes and stay still. "Fine. Your goal was very pretty." 

     "Right? Retape my shoulder later, before I go?" I beg. 

     Liam puts his hands on my helmet and grasps the metal caging around my face. He pulls my face to his, so the helmets touches at our foreheads. We usually bash our heads together. I aim for concussions; this felt foreign, almost like a lover's touch — the other boys smirk and point. The highest bid is $50 that we will kiss by the end of the week. 

     "Sure thing. Bye, Tim." 

     I smile as he calls me by my nickname, and head out to the ice. 

     Liam takes my hand as we sit in his car. “I really don’t want to go,” I whine under my breath. 

     “It’s just a dance.” 

     I know that. It doesn’t mean I should have to go. Most of the team are with their dates. Liam and I decide to go together. 

     “Let’s go somewhere else.” I pop my gum as plans start to form.

     “Like where?” 

     We sit together in the rink and use our fingers to draw infinities on the plexiglass as we speak about whatever comes to mind. The lights are only half on, the speaker connected to his phone, and it plays his favorite song. I know all the words this time. We mutter about new ideas for cheers to yell from the bench, complain about the eggshell-yellow uniform, and gossip about Jaden’s new girlfriend. The cold turns our noses red. My head is in his hands, and my lips are against his. We run, barefoot, onto the ice from the bleachers, and we fall onto our knees, laughing. This is the same spot where I almost broke my nose. He drives me home. This time I don’t fall asleep in the neighbor’s yard. He stays the night. 

     “How’s the thigh feel?” Liam asks me as I waddle in with my pads, helmet perched on top of my head. I tried out a new position – goalie. The gloves fit perfectly. This would be my position for the rest of the season. I shrug back. Nonchalant. Hold back the groan when I straighten. “Little tight. Might be in later for a PT session. Might need to tap you.” I nod and wave my blocker behind my shoulder before I head towards the locker room. It is a tradition for Liam to follow me and help me take off my uniform. He always takes too long with my helmet, especially when he sighs tender-hearted words under his breath. Today, though, he doesn’t follow me. He hasn’t said any personal words to me since I asked him to sleep on the couch a few nights before. He left before the sun rose. 

     I don’t take off my gear until the coaches come in and tells me that it is time to go. 

     I move across the country a few months later to finish my senior year of high school at a boarding school. The boys were starting practices in the summer, and I was buying dorm-room objects in bulk. He was 18. I imagine that he was still planning to go to Boston  University to play with the Terriers. We hadn’t talked since the last message was sent to the 2018 group chat. “Good season guys!” Liam wrote. I delete the chat. 

It’s raining and I’m thankful to be inside. I receive a text. I ignore it. I’m in Workshop, looking at a piece comparing flowers and ex-lovers. I pull out my phone and place it in my lap, looking down. My teacher is watching.

     Coach Greg sent a message to our 2018 group chat.

     “Liam’s memorial will be on Tuesday, November 26 at the rink. I expect to see you all there.”

     I leave class and stay in the bathroom for 14 minutes. 

     You lost your captain last week in a car accident. He was sitting in the front seat of his 2005 Chevrolet Silverado when his eyes closed and he began to snore. When he opened them, his hand gripped the wheel and he jerked it too hard, flipping his car in the middle of the highway. You know grief too well. He had become a close friend over the past few years. First, it’s your grandparents, then it’s your parents, then your siblings, then it’s your friends. It’s always the ones you love. I cross out the last two lines. He would laugh at me if he heard that. The man sitting in the middle seat, 19B, looks at the napkin. He sees “Liam’s Eulogy” written on top, capital letters. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says and gestures to it. I tell him I’m not one to talk to strangers on airplanes. I crumple the American Airlines napkin and stuff it into my backpack. 

     The boy skates gleefully to the penalty box, which Liam bangs his gloves on as he skates back towards the bench. I tell him to relax. “Look at your nose, man. Blood is not two minutes,” Liam pouts. 

     We walk out after the game, wandering to Brody’s truck to celebrate our win. The other team follows us out. They throw punches. A boy breaks Tristan’s nose. I break the boy’s windshield. 

     I deliver my eulogy about bloody noses and broken windshields. The boys and I go to IHOP after. None of us talk about the empty space next to me.