Page 36 of Power Move
We’re riding high. Our afternoon game against Winnipeg has been a battle from the first face off. After a scoreless first period, Sage, Maxim, and Jonas all scored in the second. Quinn scored at the start of the third. And Pierre is closing in on a shutout, if he can stay strong.
Sage rockets down the ice, weaving around players, and fires a shot from the left circle. It pings off the crossbar, and a Winnipeg defenseman plays it away.
He comes off the ice, breathing hard from his extended shift. Maxim hops over the boards to replace him, skating into the fray. And falls. He gets his skates under him, stands, and goes down again.
“Damn, he’s lost his skate blade.” Beside me, Remy points to the silver blade lying on the ice.
Winnipeg takes advantage of Maxim’s slow, one-skated attempt to return to the bench, and skates deep into our zone.Their center passes the puck to their winger, and Pierre drops into the butterfly. The winger skates closer, slams the puck to the center instead of taking the shot himself, and the center fires off a one-timer.
Pierre flails to the other side of the net, but I fear it’s too late.
In a blur of purple, Jonas dives, throwing his body to the ice, sliding across the crease to cover the open spot.
The puck crashes into his skate. I wince, and then worry at the agony twisting his face.
Players rush in. The crowd grows louder. Winnipeg’s center and winger battle Quinn and Morgan in the crease, and Pierre lands on top of Jonas, searching for the puck. He finally gets his glove on top of it, trapping the disc as the game clock reaches zero. The buzzer goes off.
Remy throws his arms around me. “Pierre got the shutout!”
Our bench erupts in a cheer and we hop over the boards, forming a line to congratulate Pierre. The roar of the crowd is a tidal wave of noise.
At the goal net, Morgan and Maxim yell for the trainer and doctor. The ref and linesmen are there too. Quinn bolts to the bench, calling something to Coach Grant.
“What’s going on?” Dread coiling in my core, I skate past my teammates.
In the goal crease, Jonas and Pierre lay in a heap. Blood drips from Jonas’s chin and he grasps his right skate, wincing. Pierre’s face is cut too. He keeps patting Jonas on the shoulder.
I drop to Jonas’s side. “What happened?”
“Maxim’s stick got me.” He grabs hold of my jersey sleeve, twisting the material, hissing in pain. “I think my ankle is bad.”
In the almost four years I’ve known Jonas, he’s never admitted to any injury being bad. I slip closer to him so he can lean his head on my shoulder then brush my glove over hisforehead, wiping away the sweat beading on his face. “It’ll be okay, bud. Help’s coming.”
The arena is slowly emptying out, but plenty of fans stick around, watching us. A lot of our teammates wait too. All of them with the same somber expression.
Quinn and the medical staff arrive. They assess Jonas, then ask Quinn and me to help him so he won’t put any weight on that leg.
We get him between us, his arms around our shoulders, and skate him off the ice to the sound of stick taps from our teammates and applause from the remaining fans. With him hopping on the one skate and using us like crutches, we maneuver down the tunnel and deliver him to the medical staff’s office for an examination and X-rays.
The pit in my stomach deepens as I go through my post-game routine. Showered and dressed, I wait for word on Jonas with Quinn and Maxim. The team is leaving for a five game, nine-day road trip from here. I doubt Jonas will be joining us.
The TV on the wall shows the post-game media conference. Sage sits at the table with Coach Grant and Pierre, fielding questions. He’s done a few of these and looks more at ease with each one.
His on-ice performance is catching reporters’ attention. He has goals in each of his last ten games, and at least one point in every game he’s played with us. With him, we win games, and he’s becoming an integral part of the team. He’s a big reason we’ll be returning to the playoffs. I said all of that in the interview I gave after the last game, and clips of it have been circulating online along with photos of the two of us, out having coffee and dinner, speculating whether we have a bromance or something more.
The tread of a footstep followed by a softer clack, comes from the hall. Jonas swings in, aided by crutches, his injured foot ina boot, and a line of stitches on his chin. Someone has helped him out of his uniform and gear, but he’s still dressed in the thin long-sleeved tee and pants we all wear as a base layer. He sees us, and relief softens the pain etched into his features. “You waited.”
Maxim strides toward him, arms open, and carefully hugs him. “Of course. Sorry about the stick blade to the chin.”
“It’s okay. I like that it’s from you and not that asshole winger. I won’t hate the scar it leaves.”
“What’s the word?” Quinn gestures at the crutches and boot.
Jonas sighs. “Broken foot, thanks to the puck. And a high ankle sprain, thanks to the rut in the ice my skate blade caught as I dove to block that shot.”
I drop my chin to my chest, relieved it’s not worse news, but still… it’s not great. That’s weeks of being laid up, followed by rehab. It could be two to three months before he’s fully healed. “Damn, that sucks.”
“I can’t put weight on my foot, and I’m supposed to keep it elevated for the next three to five days.” His shoulders droop as he glances at his boot. “At least Pierre got the shutout.”
