Delayed Penalty by Shey Stahl

 

1. Checking from Behind

The act of hitting an opponent from the back when they are unaware the hit is coming resulting in a penalty.

Game 36 - Detroit Red Wings - December

Evan

Hockey games are somewhat predictable.

Blanket statement, sure. But is it?

You’re probably thinking, how the hell are they predictable? You don’t know who’s going to win.

True, you don’t, but, what I mean is predictable in a sense that someone will drop their gloves and fight.

Don’t believe me, watch what happens next.

“What’s up, Mase?” The left-winger for the Detroit Red Wings stops in front of me, his skates grating harshly against the ice at the blue line, sizing me up. With a nod, one that tells me what he wants, he circles around once more. This part, it’s a dance I know well.

Pay attention, this is what I’m talking about.

Look at the guy circling me. That’s Matzy, a bull-shouldered guy with a scarred face and crooked nose. Sure, he’s seen better days, but so have most hockey players in the National Hockey League.

“See something you like?” I offer up as a wisecrack, winking at him.

“Yeah, your sister.” He pushes against my shoulder, crouching down into position, his stick nudging my ribs, letting me know he’s game for what I want. “She legal yet?”

The linesman beside us smiles at him, as if he thinks this shit is funny. And it is, when they’re not talking about your sister. “Watch out now, Matzy. Masen can be your worst fucking nightmare if ya let ’im.”

He’s not wrong. I raise my eyebrows at the linesman, and he grins, knowing we were about to drop gloves. With cheap shots, slashing, and heavy chirping, we’ve been at it most of the night and it isn’t ending without one of us dropping our gloves. Hockey players, we fight for a number of different reasons in a game. That’s the predictable part I’d been talking about. And Matzy and me—we do this any time we get together. To be honest, I love a good fight. It’s probably one of the reasons I play the position I do.

We’re down by two, and it’s not personal against Matzy. I’m simply… bored.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me to dance?” I tease, trying to get him going.

My job as a defenseman is to prevent forwards from making a goal and tie them up during a faceoff. Judging by my time spent in the penalty box tonight, I’d say I play my role well.

Watch and see.

“We’ll dance all right….” Matzy nudges me again, as expected, but my eyes aren’t on him. Nope. I’m focused on the puck in the linesman’s hand, trying to anticipate the drop because that’s what gives me the exact moment when this needs to happen. “’Til you’re fuckin’ bleeding.”

Leo, our star center, and the Red Wings center square up. He looks to me, grins, and then eyes the puck.

“Sounds like fun,” I tell Matzy, still not looking at him. “C’mon, let’s go.” I butt my stick in his ribs. “Hope you’re ready.”

When the puck drops, Leo gets possession, and I drop my gloves, at the same time as Matzy. I can hear the crowd come to life, roaring in excitement, passionately rooting their team on. I don’t blame them. It’s why 90 percent of them come to watch an NHL game. To watch us fight.

We circle for a moment, both of us finding steady footing before I take the first swing. The linesman watches, making sure nothing illegal is done as our teammates give us room. Like I said, this is expected and part of the game.

My first swing lands on his shoulder. He pivots and connects with my jaw before I pound three more good punches against his, all the while, keeping my footing. That’s when I know I’m in trouble if I don’t keep up because he eyes me like, motherfucker, you’re going down.

Listen. I’m not afraid to bleed and I’m a good fighter. You have to be in hockey, but matched up against Matzy, it’s a challenge. He’s quick and his hook will lay your ass out if you’re not careful. It’s been a few years since Matzy and I have sparred, but I’m quickly reminded he certainly hasn’t lost his edge.

He takes another swing and I dodge it but not enough. This one pops me right on the mouth and I taste blood instantly. It stuns me, rings my bells for a second, but then the linesman is in our faces when Matzy loses his footing and crashes to the ice.

“All right, boys.” The linesman yanks us apart. “That’s enough.”

As expected, I’m escorted to the box. Our teammates beat their sticks against the boards, prompting uproar from the twenty thousand fans already on their feet as “Dropkick Murphys” blares through the arena.

Eh, at least they’re into it now. I look down at the ice as I skate toward the box, blood splattering against the stark white. I smile. I do because I know I’m doing my job.

“You look fucking great, man!” Leo’s skates grate against the ice as he stops before me, full of excitement, banging his helmet against mine.

“That’s enough,” the linesman tells him, one hand on Leo’s chest, the other on mine.

You’ll soon find out Leo is always exaggerating. Doesn’t matter what he’s doing, the guy is going about a hundred miles an hour and so is his mind. “Don’t stop roughin’ ’em up. That’s what you do, Mase, don’t forget it! That’s what you fucking do, man!”

See? Told you he’s a lot.

I smile around the mouth guard clamped between my teeth as blood drips from my lip. Laughing, Leo hands me my gloves as the door to the penalty box opens. “Time out, boy.”

The linesman to my left waves Leo away. “Get lost or you’re join’ him, Orting.”

I spend fifteen minutes in the penalty box. Five for fighting, five for a major, and another five for instigating—since I threw the first punch—while Matzy gets five for fighting. We chirp back and forth in the box, for pure intimidation purposes and entertainment for the fans, who continue to beat on the glass surrounding the penalty box.

So far tonight, this is my third trip to the box.

That’s nothing though. Last week, I got forty-five minutes off one play. A defenseman with the Boston Bruins and I have had a shady past ever since the junior leagues. He wanted to go and I just wasn’t feeling it so he took a cheap shot at Leo as he was climbing the bench after our shift, nailing the back of his legs with his stick.

He skated away, retreating to the bench, like he could just get away with it.

He thought wrong.

No one does that and gets away with it when I’m around.

I may not have wanted to fight him, but I wasn’t about to let him get away with a dirty hit like that, on Leo of all guys. So I chased him, jumping the bench with a swift spearing motion, dropped my gloves, and fought him and two of his teammates. I believe their team trainer even got some shots. I was pissed. I’m a protector. It’s in my nature and nothing stops me from protecting those I care about.

Though I spent the remainder of the game in the locker room that night, I don’t regret it. And you know what? The rest of the game he didn’t take a cheap shot like that. Or so I was told. I didn’t have much of a view from the locker room.

Some might wonder what happens in the penalty box.

Lots of boobs—can’t complain there—lots of popcorn thrown and beer offered, and tons of shit talking. I was once offered a hand job. By a dude. Turned it down.

If you haven’t already noticed, I’m a hockey player. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I have all my teeth. Sure, two are fake, but I have them.

Spitting out blood, I add my own commentary to the game, yelling at the boys as they push the puck around. What am I saying? Well, it’s selection of colorful words, mostly inappropriate to the children sitting behind me, but the way I see it, if their parents bring them to a hockey game, they need the full experience, and that includes my choice phrases.

“C’mon, boys, push the fuckin’ puck!” The penalty keeper turns toward me with a smirk, knowing I’m only getting started. “Push it!”

Leo has the puck racing toward the corner. He bumps the right wing for Detroit who turns to protest, but Leo steals the puck again and streaks up the right. Our right wing, Shelby, breaks away with him and cuts an opening at center. Leo sees him and angles his body toward him as though he’s going to pass and then doesn’t. In a quick motion, Shelby swings sharply to his left and stays onside.

Leo chuckles, his eyes bright with excitement as this goal will tie the game. He moves against another center for Detroit, fakes left and right, then pretends to stumble against him, Leo laughing as they both fall. The Detroit center isn’t impressed and struggles to find his balance once again.

Another right-winger, fresh off a shift change, charges up to them, spraying snow in the center’s face. Hacking at the puck, he pushes it loose before passing back to Leo, who is positioned to the right of the crease.

“Fuckin’ A, Orting! That’s how you move the puck!” I yell at our star center when he fakes left and then right. He fools the goalie for Detroit when he spins around and snags the upper right of the net. “That’s how you do it, man!”

Goal!

The whistle blows, and I’m out the door heading back onto the ice as the lights flash with the goal. Most don’t know this, but a hockey game is constantly being stopped for things like offsides, icing, penalties, pucks frozen under bodies and along boards, and the occasional release of pent-up frustration. And though the number of fights varies depending on the game and team we are playing, for the most part it remains the same.

For the devoted fans cheering us on, the game doesn’t stop at the whistle. Not for the ones who are truly passionate about the sport.

It’s the same sport that has little boys hacking at pucks in sub-zero temperatures until their fingers are blue. The same sport where brothers bond and wives cheer their favorite players. The same sport where families get together. They put their differences aside and for three periods, they bond.

That’s what it’s all about, right?

I like to think so. Because as hockey players, we put heart into everything we do, and believe in, since we learned how to skate.

Truth is, nothing matters more to our souls and the amount of heart we put into this game.

No bond is greater than the ones you bleed for. I believe that and play the game that way.

My team—the Chicago Blackhawks—we’re brothers who would lay everything on the line to protect our own.

We end up winning the game and the energy is swirling in the locker room. Something that isn’t funny or is too personal, too embarrassing, too important becomes hilarious as we board the bus to head back to Chicago.

The boys are rowdy, shooting off one-liners at each other, harassing rookies, fucking with the coaches, and playing practical jokes, mostly fueled by Leo and me. While most are preparing for Christmas and living normal lives in their homes after the game, we are the Chicago Blackhawks, fresh off a win and out of control.

“Can you believe this snow?” Leo asks sometime after we hit I-90 West, heading toward Chicago. We usually fly home when the drive is longer than a few hours, but with the sketchy weather, we’re forced to drive since the plane is grounded for severe weather. I can’t understand the logic behind driving if the plane’s wings are frozen. That just seems dumb to me. Wouldn’t driving be more dangerous?

They don’t pay me to make decisions like that though so I sit on the bus and stress out over the snow falling. “No, I can’t,” I mumble miserably, glancing out the bus window. I hate bus rides. No particular reason why, I just do.

“Dumb fucks.” Leo sits beside me, looking like a kid in a candy store as he watches cars sliding around trying to gain control. “Why are they even trying to drive in this shit?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe for the same reason we are?”

“I guess so.” He shrugs one shoulder, pulling out his cell phone to take a video of a crash on the shoulder.

It’s really coming down and I’m starting to get the impression that any chance of making it to my hometown of Pittsburgh in this snow isn’t looking good. I really want to be home with my family for the holidays, in a place where I’m comfortable, rather than in a city I barely know anyone in.

Catelyn, my younger sister, hounds me endlessly about being home this Christmas for God knows what reason. Probably so she’ll have someone to fall victim to her frequent abuse. She’s a brat, an incessant, invasive brat, but I still love her.

I haven’t been home since I was drafted. Last season, I was the number one draft pick for the Chicago Blackhawks. I always liked Chicago so was more than thrilled to be signed to a team I grew up watching. I’m from Pittsburgh, though, so naturally I was pulling for the Penguins to pick me up, but I fit in well here in Chicago and can’t ask for a better group of guys to play with. We have the unity and have formed a strong bond together the last two seasons, and that’s what makes winning hockey teams.

I started playing hockey when I got my first pair of skates at two years old. My dad was a die-hard hockey fan. Seriously though, someone should have him committed with how insane he can get about the game. But all that insanity and willingness to help me was what got me into the NHL at nineteen.

So while I had my skates and stick at the age of two, they finally allowed me to have the puck when I turned three. The reason for the no puck rule stemmed from something about me drilling the puck through the window a few times. I don’t remember this, but my dad has told the story to just about anyone who will listen to him for more than five minutes.

Once I had the puck and stick together, a love was formed. Ever since then, nothing compares to the way I feel on the ice.

I grew up playing in the PAHL, Pittsburgh Amateur Hockey League, through the various midget levels until I was fourteen and was eligible to play for the Ontario Hockey League Major Juniors, which was overseen by the Canadian Hockey League—their governing body for professional hockey.

I was listed first overall in the NHL Central Scouting Bureau and International Scouting Services’ respective rankings of prospects that year and went on to be selected first overall in the draft by the Chicago Blackhawks.

And now, here I am, my second season in the NHL, game thirty-six, already in the record books. For my time spent in the penalty box. I’m kidding, but I’m sure I’m up there at the top of the charts.

I wake up from a nap with Leo sticking his finger up my nose and the bus skidding to a stop outside the United Center shortly after midnight. “Wake up, sunshine!”

Leo Orting, our scrappy center, is my best friend. Are you surprised? Don’t be. He keeps me mellow and without him, I’d probably be too uptight for anyone to like me. We room together on the road, sit together on the bus, and the team plane. Anywhere we go with the team, we’re together. Why? Because hockey players like routine. And let me tell you, we have a routine. Also, don’t fuck with it.

Leo and me, we grew up playing in the OHL together. When I first met him, he slammed my ass so hard into the boards my mouth guard flew out of my mouth, and I thought I’d be pissing blood. The next chance I got, I did the same thing to him. In hockey, you play dirty, and you better be ready to take it dirty too. And Leo can.

He smiled, peeling himself from the boards, hit my shoulder, and said, “Nice hit, eh.”

From then on, we played each other with respect. A year older—he entered the draft before I did—he was traded the year I signed with the Blackhawks, to none other than, the Blackhawks. It’s fun having guys like Leo on the team—ones you can count on to keep your team alive and play well together. If Leo thinks for a second morale has been lost, he’ll do something to bring it back. Usually to someone else’s public humiliation, but that’s Leo and exactly why everyone loves him.

Making our way off the bus, we unload equipment bags and then transfer them to our respective vehicles. Leo spends more time tossing rocket snowballs at Shelby, the rookie on the team.

“You coming with us, kid?” Leo asks when he and a few others make plans to stop by the local pub before heading home to their families.

I glare at them. They always call me kid, despite my protests. I’m not twenty-one yet. “Nah,” I yell back at them, walking up the street.

Leo laughs, nailing me in the back of the head with a snowball. “Pussy!”

I stop off at Smith & Wollensky, grab some food with Shelby and spend the next two hours talking about every aspect of the game before I head home.

After dinner, or I suppose you could now call it a really early breakfast, we stand on the street staring up at the light flakes falling over the city streets. I turn and look over at him, my breath seen in puffs of white. “Need me to walk ya home, kid?” I ask Shelby, smiling at him. I remember what it was like to be the rookie and always catching shit, but it still doesn’t stop me from handing it out to him.

He shakes his head, snow falling from his hair. “Nah, I’m good.”

I shove my hands in my pockets and turn toward the street. “Suit yourself.”

As I walk up the street, my feet crunch against the frozen ground. Despite the early morning hours, the streets of Chicago hum with people captivated by the lights and glamour of the city. I keep to myself, dodging drunks and homeless lingering on the sidewalks when a gust of frigid air hits me.

The temperature of a Chicago winter hovers around the mid-thirties for weeks at a time, and even though I’m used to the cold winters and snow, this week has record lows and averaged in the single digits at night. Let’s just say, these are the nights I wouldn’t mind having a nice warm body to curl up to.

My eyes are half closed as I walk from the restaurant, passing cabs hauling off drunks from the local bars. The wind blows again, shocking me momentarily before I shiver. Fuck, that’s cold. Huddling in, I pull my jacket tighter. Squeezing my eyes shut, I wince at the tenderness of the hits I took tonight. Have you ever tried to breathe when the temperature dips below the twenties? It’s like shoving ice picks up your damn nose. It’s the kind of cold that has you thinking your lungs are going to freeze with the slightest inhale.

I follow a path along the Chicago River I’ve learned well over the last year. The one heading toward my apartment in the Trump Towers. After crossing North State, I pass by Rossi’s, wait for a car to pass by, and then attempt to cross the street.

But when I hear a soft moaning, I stop, searching for the sound. It’s eerie, almost like a dying animal. Pulling my beanie cap from my head, I glance over my right shoulder down a dark alley between the two buildings, trying to decipher where the noise is coming from. Am I hearing shit? Did you hear it? For all I know it could be Leo fucking with me again. Wouldn’t be the first time.

I stop breathing, listening…. That’s when I notice it’s coming from the alley. Between the dumpsters appears to be a small figure pushed up against the side of the brick building. And honestly, that’s not unheard of in downtown Chicago with the homelessness increasing daily.

What gets my attention? The bright red stain that’s spilled against the white snow.

Holy shit. That’s not good.

Nervously, I check my surroundings. Redfish, a grimy bar, is to my right on the corner. Outside, a group of men lean against the side of the building, smoking. The smoke from their cigarettes mixing with their breathing in the frigid air creates a thick layer of fog around them.

The wind whips around, slaps my face and before I can focus again, my eyes lock on the source of the noise. A dark alleyway has bad news written all over it, especially for a professional athlete worth millions. That’s not me being conceited. That’s me being smart. I’ve seen all the scary movies. I know how this scene ends.

The hesitation rules momentarily and I remain near the street, peering into the alleyway, but then the noise gets louder.

Fuck, what do I do? Risk my life or potentially save someone?

My heart beats rapidly in my chest, my mind racing. That’s when I’m sure it’s a woman’s moan, one of discomfort and helplessness. I step forward, hesitantly eyeing the men at the end of the alley.

There’s no way anyone should be out here in this weather, let alone lying in a snow-covered street. If anything, I can at least get her out of the cold. I’m not exactly the type of guy who would allow her in my apartment, considering she’s probably just another transient who made some bad decisions, but I’d pay for her to get a hotel room for the night given her condition.

I approach her hesitantly, not knowing exactly what to expect. Visions of Leo and his theory on dark streets in Chicago make me smile. You can’t get him to walk alone in the city. He’s convinced someone will shank him. Honestly, sometimes, I’d shank the guy and he’s my best friend.

“Hello?” I call out, my dress shoes crunching in the frozen snow with each step. Hoping I don’t get shanked is still on my mind, but now real fear takes over.

She’s in worse shape than I thought.

There’s no answer—no moaning, no crying, just the raucous voices from Redfish calling out last call. I press my back into the wall, keeping my distance. The girl is huddled in the corner, curling into herself, her arms wrapped around her delicate body in a protective manner. Light hair cascades over her face and shoulders, obscuring the view of her face. The black jacket she’s wearing is ripped in various spots, her jeans pulled down around her ankles.

Jesus Christ. I close my eyes, hoping I’m just imagining things. It is late. Maybe I’m too tired to be thinking clearly.

I blink and focus. Same scene before me. That’s not what’s happening here. More than likely this is a situation of let’s get out of here and her protesting that decision. She’s probably fell victim to one of those shifty smokers outside Redfish. Her light-colored underwear is torn to pieces, shredded around her right thigh. Long, purplish black marks are forming over her thighs. I’m not looking close enough though. It seems wrong to look at a naked girl when something so horrendous has obviously happened to her.

Kneeling down near her face, I attempt to check for a pulse, and though it’s there, it’s extremely faint. Blood pours from her mouth and nose. Her lips are blue, skin cool to the touch.

She’s not going to make it unless I help.

Suddenly the win and the excitement from the game is gone and now replaced with confusion and worry.

The tang of blood, though my senses are frozen, is strong. Blood pours from a large gash on her forehead, nose, mouth, and ears. I’ve seen some nasty carnage before on the ice, but this girl is in need of medical attention, and I’m not sure, but it might be too late.

Her eyes are swollen shut already. Reddish purple marks loop around under her eyes and the back of her ears.

“Hey—girl?” I try to nudge her slightly, not wanting to cause any more damage than has already been done to her. “Hey, girl?” I try again, my voice lower.

Girl? How original. What is wrong with you?

Well, it’s probably around zero degrees, and you are in fact freezing your balls off.

She doesn’t respond, not even the slightest movement. Stepping back away from her, I try to think of what I should do.

Do I call the police? Do I take her to the hospital?

As I’m sliding my cell phone from my pocket, the girl moans softly before something that looks like blood mixed with vomit pours from her mouth. I reach out quickly, intending to help her, but then she goes limp again, her face pressing into my hand. Horrendous doesn’t do this justice. This is unspeakable and revolting that one person could do something of this nature to another human being.

“Hey now,” I whisper, trying to calm her. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

I have to get her help now. I think about calling Leo or even the police, but common sense goes out the window and I decide to hail a cab and get her to the nearest trauma center. With the way the roads are, it seems like a safer option.

As carefully as I can, I get her pants back up around her hips and my strong steady arms wrap around her tiny frame. Shrugging out of my jacket, I use it to cover her from the waist down. I’m not sure what luck I’ll have finding a cab at two in the morning while holding a girl’s limp body, but I do. One skids to a stop in front of the street when the drive sees me struggling, his front tire up on the curb.

As I try to open the door to the cab, her head flops to one side against my shoulder. Oh shit. I scramble to right her position before I drop her. I’ve never carried a lifeless figure before, but it’s surprisingly difficult trying to keep arms and legs from spilling out of my grasp.

“Hey, what’s wrong with her?” the cabby yells from the front seat. “You hurt her like that?”

“No, it wasn’t me,” I bark immediately. What the fuck is he implying? That I hurt her when I’m the only one trying to save her. “She was beaten by someone and left in the alley outside Redfish.”

“Hospital?” is his next question.

No shit, jackass.“Yes.” I’m not sure how exactly to hold her without doing any more damage, but with a shirt from my bag, I try to keep pressure on the gash on her head, which appears to be where most of the blood is coming from. “You’re gonna be okay,” I whisper to her. I struggle to keep her covered since she is, in fact, nearly naked. Within minutes, my designer suit is ruined, as is my jacket and the shirt I have against her head.

Right about then it hits me. I’m wearing a lot of this girl’s blood, have no idea where she’s been, and I have open wounds on my knuckles from the fight. She could be a crackhead for all I know.

Great logic. Rescue a girl in the alley and then wipe her blood on you. Idiot.

The girl remains limp in my arms, blood pooling in her mouth, seeping from her lips every so often. The smell, pungently overwhelming, is making me sick, but the adrenaline takes precedence and has me focused on getting her help.

The cab takes us up the street to the hospital. The car skids to a stop, and the cabby comes around the side, opens the door, then helps me get the girl inside the emergency room.

“Help us!” I call out when the automatic glass doors open.

Immediately, a few nurses are there with a stretcher, allowing me to free my arms. “What happened to her?” one asks, securing the sides of the bed.

I put my hands in my hair, pulling. “I don’t know.” Though I have spent my life roughing up two-hundred-pound defensemen on a daily basis, holding this barely hundred-pound girl for the last twenty minutes has left me shaking and feeling jellylike.

The nurse, a larger woman worn beyond her years with her hair tied back in a tight ponytail, eyes the blood on me, along with my tattered appearance from the game. My black eye and swollen bottom lip isn’t helping me defend my innocence in this brutal attack.

“Are you responsible for this?”

“No!” I shout, becoming defensive, pushing forward to follow them. “I found her in the alley. I brought her here.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she replies with a superior calmness. “Don’t go anywhere. You’ll need to be questioned,” she snaps, pushing the stretcher through the metal doors into what I assume is the trauma center.

What a bitch. I almost call her that too. I grit my teeth, pushing the words down. I bring someone here in need of help and this is the kind of shit I’m met with? That’s bullshit.

I follow, regardless of where they’re taking her. I have to know she’s going to make it. “I’m not going anywhere.” I watch the girl twist to the side and vomit again before her body wilts back. I’m actually surprised they’ve let me follow them, but they do. “Is she going to be okay?” My focus remains on the quick movements of the doctors hovering over her.

They are all yelling orders. Frantic movements, quick decisions, and fast hands scramble to save this girl. Realization slams into me. She might die. Time passes quickly but just as slow. The world stops and voices fade.

I didn’t know this girl, but I can’t watch her die, not after trying to save her.

Pushing myself back against the wall, their efforts seem empty or bare as she makes no response. Her heartbeat is faint, fading in and out from the extreme loss of blood. The doctor hovers above her, stopping the chest compressions he’d begun when her heart gave way the first time.

“What are you doing? Don’t stop!” I demand, looking into the eyes of the subdued doctor. “Help her! Fuckin’ do something!”

A taller, lanky man steps forward. His arms reach for my shoulders, trying to console me. “Sir, she’s not going to make it. Her heart isn’t—”

My head shakes violently against his dejected words. I won’t take that for an answer. “Please! Just… try one more time,” I beg, emotion welling up when I glance at her lifeless body. I don’t know this girl, but I can’t let this happen to her.

No. I won’t accept that. She has to live. There’s no other option.

Another doctor who resumed compressions shocks her again. This time they get another jolt of life from her. It’s faint, but it’s there.

The doctors scramble into gear and push me toward the door. “You need to leave.”

With one push, I’m out the door and standing in the hallway, left wondering.

How did I even get here, and why am I focused so distinctly on this, on her? What is it about her that holds me here?

My body’s numb from the adrenaline and feelings of confusion and heartache for this girl I don’t know. When the doors close, the desolation is so intense I have to reach for the wall to steady myself.

I don’t know why, or how, but something makes me stay. I don’t know her, nor do I have an obligation to stay, but something roots me here, telling me I can’t leave. And I wouldn’t be me if I left her here alone. Any man who puts his heart and soul into a game of hockey can’t walk away when someone needs them. She has no one else right now.

So I stay.

In a room full of people praying for their loved ones to pull through, I pray for a girl I don’t know to have a beating heart.

While others’ sorrows turn to grieving pain, I sit, waiting on the words of the unknown.