Page 110 of From Ice to Home
The arena is humming with excitement and the fans are reacting to every move across the ice. The deep thrum of the organ leading the chants, the smell of sweat-filled gloves and fresh ice being shaved up…It's all familiar, yet I feel like a bystander on my own team.
Wyatt Lindgren is sitting next to me, his knee bouncing as he watches the puck like a hawk. EJ is adjusting the tape on his stick, his eyes glued to the ice.
My linemates, my team.
They called on Callahan to fill my spot. An older guy who hasn’t really featured in the postseason, but now he’ll have to perform. He’s a steady presence on the roster, but he’s never had to face a game with stakes like this. He can either rise to the occasion, or it can break the Ranger’s momentum, forcing us into game seven.
A dull ache throbs behind my eyes reminding me that I shouldn’t be here at all. But I couldn’t leave the arena knowing that my team is out here playing. Which is why Coach allowed me to sit on the bench in a hoodie and a ballcap.
After a heated argument with Dr. Kessler, she cleared me to watch, but not to dress.
I agreed and quickly got out of my gear to support my team.
The jumbotron flashes overhead, calling the attention of the crowd.
LUCAS WALKER — OUT (CONCUSSION PROTOCOL)
And then my face appears on the screen. A live feed of where I’m sitting on the bench, chin tucked low and jaw clenched. The crowd reacts immediately, a roar of sympathy and support rolling through Madison Square Garden.
Usually I’m not aware of when the camera cuts to the bench. I’m too engrossed in the game, in the moment, to care about it. But now, it’s like I can feel thousands of eyes on me.
I can already hear what the commentators are probablysaying.“Walker’s presence on the bench is a good sign. It’s clear he took a very hard hit earlier and is still under observation. This is a huge blow for the Rangers, especially in a game like this where losing a player like him could lead to a tragic loss. He’s been a difference maker all post season.”
I look up toward the VIP lounge, spotting Hannah sitting next to my dad. He flew in this morning, with Noah. I didn’t expect him to show up but I’m grateful he did. This is the first time he’s ever seen me play, and I couldn’t even make it a full twenty minutes on the ice.
This was supposed to be a step in the direction of reconciliation. A small one, but still, it would’ve been a way for me to show him what I’ve built here, what I’ve fought for.
Now, it feels like I’ve wasted his time. And that he might think I’m wasting mine.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, forcing the emotion down. I can’t afford to let it show…not now.
“You alright there, Walker?” Coach asks, popping his head over my shoulder from where he’s standing behind the bench. “You wouldn’t rather go home or something?”
“I would rather be on the ice,” I say, trying and failing to keep the cold bite from my voice.
“I know, son.” He pats me on the shoulder, only adding to the emotion I’m trying to shove down.
“You know it would be a different game if I were out there too,” I toss over my shoulder, hoping he knows that I would’ve been able to make a difference on the ice.
“I also know that the moment I put the Cup before player health and safety, I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross. You’re perfect just where you are.” He pats me on the shoulder again. “Believe me.”
I just nod, keeping my eyes on the ice and on the players. I don’t have the energy or the position to argue with him. I know he’s right, but it doesn’t make this any easier.
We’re tied 3-3 and there are ten minutes left in the third. It’s still more than enough time to score, or if needed, push to overtime. But it would be better if we could get a lead on them and win the Cup clean.
Coach moves down the line, barking instructions to the guys on the next shift. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, doing my best to block out the pounding in my head and stay focused.
From this angle, just watching, I’m starting to notice things. The Canucks are crowding our guys every time we try to make a play near their goal. They’re closing in fast, forcing us to shoot too early or fumble the puck. But in all their pressure, they’re leaving a gap.
Every time the puck drops behind the net, one of their defensemen chases it too far, leaving the other side of the ice wide open.
“Barney,” I say, loud enough to get his Wyatt Lindgren’s attention. He turns toward me, chewing on his mouthguard.
“Yeah?” he says, leaning in slightly.
“They’re leaving the back door wide open,” I tell him, gesturing toward the ice. “If you can get it behind the net, flip it across. Callahan will be there.”
He looks back at the ice, thinking. EJ leans over, already nodding.
