Page 7 of Riding the Pine

Cabrón.

The team is struggling on the penalty kill. I mean, who could blame them, it’s two minutes of essentially solid ice time. Hockey players at a professional level struggle with that amount of ice time in one block, so these fifteen- to seventeen-year-olds are most definitely feeling it in their thighs.

One of our players makes a stupid fucking mistake and looks up at the large clock on the wall, allowing the second-best goal scorer in the league behind Apollo, a guy on the opposing team, to get a shot on my brother. If Ares has one downfall, it’s his arrogance. Nine times out of ten, his ego will get the better of him. His “cool confidence” is more haughty superiority. Heknowshe’s better than everyone else on the ice—therefore, he’s better than none of them.

And until he learns to control both his conceit and his anger, he’ll never be the goaltender he could be.

Waterloo score, and true to form, my youngest brother goes from zero to three thousand in a fraction of a second. You can almost see the moment where he loses his shit, and logic leaves the building like it’s strapped into a seat aboard Concorde.

Ares winds himself up, squaring his shoulders before slamming his stick against the pipes of his goal with such aggression it splinters into shards and scatters across the ice. The referee is only maybe ten feet away and says something to my brother. Clearly Ares doesn’t take whatever was said well, he turns his back to the ref and mutters something under his breath. Or, knowing him, not.

The ref says something back to my brother, who turns and screams at the top of his lungs which makes the referee put both hands on his hips signaling a misconduct penalty. My stomach dips, I’d love to say I’m surprised at my brother’s behavior, but this is Ares’s MO: all aggression, all the time. On the ice, off the ice… hell, I think he’d even pick a fight with his shadow if the mood struck him.

Artemis drops his head into his hands in the penalty box, a move mimicked by our brother, Apollo, on the bench. Sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart when they both have the exact same mannerisms. Though, to be fair, Ares has made us all face-palm countless times over the years.

Coach isn’t having any of Ares’s bullshit, he yells something from the bench to my now completely incandescent-with-rage brother who is skating across the ice waxing lyrical at the referee’s back.

Coach shouts something else, making Ares stop in his tracks. He drops his head, muttering to his feet as he skates toward the entrance to the tunnel.

Not only did my darling brother get himself a penalty, but he also got himself thrown out of the game entirely.

That tracks.

A few moments later, Artemis is out of the box, and skating back to the blue line like it has an invisible elastic secured around him. He can’t ever go too far before the line jerks him back into position, and he patrols the shit out of that line.

Scott seems agitated on the line next to Artemis; he’s throwing his weight around. While he’s not generally Artemis’s level of cool, calm, and collected—few teenage boys are—he’s usually a little more put together than this erratic player on the ice in front of me.

Gloves and sticks are up high, the play’s very physical, chippy even. Sometimes you need that kind of game when you play established teams like Waterloo. They’re all clogged up in the neutral zone, both teams struggling to get pucks deep and get shots on the net.

The more they struggle in the mid third of the rink, the more everyone seems to boil over. We suck on the forecheck. Our problem isn’t a defensive one, it’s scoring goals. Every time Apollo steps out onto the ice, he’s shut down by Waterloo’s defense, and we’re all getting frustrated.

One of our guys swings it up the wall to the point, where it’s intercepted by his teammate who plays it down low, out of the reach of the Waterloo defenseman. There’s a quick pass in front of the net, but the net comes loose and the whistle blows.

I glance at my phone for a split second, and a commotion in the far corner draws my attention back to the ice. Artemis is face down, splayed eagle. Scott’s striding toward the Waterloo player standing over my brother, Scott already dropping his gloves. The Waterloo player is all too eager to dance and drops his in return. The helmets hit the ice, the players circle each other, their fists bobbing in front of their faces as they ready themselves for the undoubtedly short fight that’s about to ensue.

Scott flicks his gaze to Artemis, his jaw hardens, and he throws the first punch. Everyone in the stands seems to suckin a sharp breath. They may be teenagers, but they aren’t kids. Scott’s not exactly what I’d describe as gangly, he’s all shoulders and square jaw. His shaggy black hair is sweat-slicked to his forehead as he follows through on his punch.

I should feel a sense of disgust. Violence isn’t the answer to anything, right? All it does is make things worse. Yet, in hockey, physical force has its place, it’s part of the game.

Scott rains punches down on his opponent, and my heart squeezes. Artemis has gotten to his feet and is being checked out by the medics at the edge of the rink while Scott defends his honor. I snort. Artemis doesn’t need his honor defended, yet there’s something noble about Scott stepping up to avenge the check on his teammate.

“What’s so funny?” My brother Apollo’s best friend Edith asks me, turning her pale and anxiety ridden face toward me.

I shrug. “Scott’s defending Artemis’s honor.”

Her gaze intensifies as she widens her eyes. “And?”

“And he’s Arte, he’s more than capable of defending himself.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder at Artemis who has been given the thumbs up by the med team and seems ready to get back to the business of the game.

“You’re not wrong. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of Artemis’s hits.” Edith shivers next to me on the bench seats. She slips her thumbnail between her teeth, nibbling it as the fight continues.

Does Scott feel like he must protect my brothers? Or would he step up like this for any one of his teammates?

Eventually, the refs and linesmen separate the fight and both players are escorted to the penalty box. On their way across the ice, Scott’s eyes meet mine. He cants his head to the side and offers me a lopsided grin.

Blood trickles from his nose into his mouth, and his smile is bloodied and kind of gross. But it’s still the most adorable smile I’ve ever seen.

That boy is trouble, and anything between us is a bad idea. But that smile, that passion to defend my family… temptation is strong.

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