Page 116 of Almost Ours
By the time the game started, the arena was packed with parents and fans, their cheers echoing off the walls like we were at the Stanley Cup Finals instead of a ten-year-old hockey game. I couldn’t help but marvel at how this town always seemed to show up for these kids, rooting for every single one of them like they were family. I found myself on the edge of my seat, heart thumping with every play. Connor was incredible out there–skating circles around most of the other team and keeping up the pressure, even as his teammates struggled to keep up.
It didn’t take long to notice something else. The other team's players were targeting him.
“Did you see that?” one of the moms beside me gasped as a kid on the other team tripped Connor. The ref’s whistle stayed silent.
“That’s the third time they’ve gone after him,” one of the dads added, his voice sharp.
I clenched my fists in my lap, trying to keep my anger in check. Connor got up quickly every time, brushing himself off like it was nothing, but I could see the tightness in his movements, the subtle shake of his head as he skated back into the game. He was holding it together, but I knew my son–he was getting frustrated.
My eyes darted to the bench, where Ryan and Shane were both on their feet, their expression thunderous. Ryan’s face was tight with anger, his gestures sharp and deliberate as he shouted at the ref.
“You’re gonna let that slide again?” Shane bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise of the arena.
The other coach waved them off dismissively, and I saw Ryan’s jaw clench as he barked something I couldn’t hear.
“You okay?” Nina whispered beside me. “That's some bullshit out there. They’re only going after Connor because he’s better than that entire team put together.”
“I’m okay,” I breathed, watching Connor skate back into the play. “Connor knows how to stand up for himself.”
Connor, skating hard for the puck, was cut off by one of the other team’s players, who gave him a sneaky shove with his shoulder. I sucked in a breath as another kid cross-checked him from behind. Connor stumbled but didn’t fall, and I could see his frustration boil over.
In a flash, Connor turned toward the kid, his stick swinging low to smash over the other boy’s stick with a sharp crack. The sound echoed, and the referee’s whistle pierced through the chaos.
Finally, I thought, as I released a breath I hadn't realized I’d been holding. Finally, the other team’s going to get a penalty.
My head shot up as the stands erupted.
“That’s ridiculous!” Nina yelled beside me, her voice furious. “They’ve been pulling crap on him the entire game, and he gets the penalty?”
I was frozen, my heart in my throat. Connor skated toward the penalty box, his head hanging, his shoulders slumped. He looked so small sitting there, the frustration still written all over his face.
On the bench, Ryan and Shane were shouting at the ref, their outrage mirroring the noise from the stands.
“You’re really going to call that and ignore everything else?” Ryan bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.
“This is an absolute joke!” Shane added, throwing his hands up.
The ref skated over to the bench, gesturing for them to calm down, but neither Ryan nor Shane seemed ready to back off. Ryan leaned over the boards, his face set in a stony glare, clearly trying to control his temper as he argued with the official.
From the stands, the voices of other parents began to rise, one after another.
“Come on, ref! That shouldn’t be a penalty!” A dad shouted from a few rows behind me.
“That’s a cheap shot,” another voice yelled.
“You’re letting them get away with it!” someone else chimed in.
I glanced back at Connor, my heart twisting. He was gripping his stick tightly, his face pale, though he kept them from falling. The anger in the stands mirrored the way I was feeling, though it was more than just frustration for me now–it was a mix of pride and gratitude. These parents didn’t just care about the game. They cared about my son.
“Hey, Connor! You’re doing great, buddy! Keep your head up!” someone called from the opposite side of the rink.
I turned to see a dad across the ice, his voice loud enough to cut through the crowd, offering encouragement directly to my son. The words hit me like a wave, and my heart swelled. It felt like the entire community was rallying behind him, standing up for him when he couldn’t.
When Ryan finally pulled back from the ref, his expression was still furious, he motioned for Connor to look his way. Even from across the ice, I could see him talking to Connor, offering a nod of encouragement. The crowd’s energy seemed to shift in sync with Ryan’s leadership, and I could see the weight lift from Connor’s shoulders just a little.
I felt a fierce pride surge through me as the support for Connor rippled out across the stands. These people weren’t justspectators–they were part of our family. And for a moment, it was like everything else faded away.
Once Connor’s penalty was over, Ryan called for a timeout. As the kids skated toward the bench, I leaned forward, unable to look away. Ryan knelt down to talk to the team, his face calm despite the fire that had been there just moments before. He spoke with quiet intensity, gesturing as he explained a strategy, his focus entirely on the kids. Even from the stands, I could see the way his words seemed to lift their spirits.
