Page 115 of ICED
But it’s hard to watch.
The thud of fists. The crash of helmets. The roar of bloodthirsty fans.
I’ve seen violence before. Christ, I’ve lived through it. But this is different. This is structured, sanctioned. Owen isn’t a man losing control, he’s a man in complete control. And still, my body tenses with every blow. I know too well what fists can do.
Lila hides behind my arm. “Is Bear okay?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I am.
By the second period, the score is tied 1–1. Owen’s been in the penalty box twice, face flushed, a gash bleeding sluggishly near his cheekbone. He’s exhausted, bruised, and yet every time he looks toward the bench, someone claps him on the shoulder. A rookie passes him a water bottle without being asked. Murphy yells across the ice, “You got the next one, Jacko!”
It’s the kind of camaraderie I never understood before. The kind of loyalty that isn’t loud or flashy but bone-deep.
And I watch it all with a lump in my throat, because I think I’m starting to understand what Owen meant when he said the team was his family. I’m starting to see why he stays, why he fights, why he plays even when he’s hurting.
They look out for each other. They show up. That’s more than I’ve had in a very long time.
The third period is chaos.
Tempers boil. Fans scream. The opposing team getsdesperate. They shove harder, skate faster, trying to intimidate. They slash at Murphy’s ankles. Cross-check Dylan. But The Raptors hold the line.
Owen takes a nasty hit and crashes into the boards near our section, glass rattling inches from Lila’s nose. She gasps.
My whole body seizes.
But he gets up. Always gets up.
And then there’s redemption.
With three minutes left, The Raptors recover the puck, there’s a clean pass up the ice, and Murphy slaps it straight into the top corner of the net. Goal. The whole stadium erupts.
3–2. Final score.
Lila screams, “BEAR WINS! BEAR WINS!”
And I feel something I haven’t in years; pride that doesn’t cost me anything. Joy that isn’t followed by fear.
We wait by the bus in the cool night air. Lila’s practically asleep on her feet, still clutching her foam claw. I hold her close and try not to let my nerves creep in again.
We’re joining him post-game so we can travel back together on the team coach. Owen insisted, he didn’t want us in a taxi alone after the game. So, now I’ll see him through their eyes, not as the gentle man who bakes with my daughter, but as the bruised, battered enforcer who just went to war for his team.
The locker room door swings open, and players trickle out. Murphy spots us and grins. “Hey, superstar,” he says to Lila. “Your sign worked. Lucky charm, huh?”
Lila nods solemnly. “I’m gonna come to every game.”
He shoots me a wink. “You better. Jacko’s been floating all day.”
Then Owen steps out and my chest aches.
He’s changed into a hoodie and sweatpants, his kit slung over one shoulder, a thin dressing now covering his cheek. His eyes lock onto mine like I’m the only person in the world.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough from shouting and ice time.
Lila launches at him. “BEAR! YOU WON! I SAW EVERYTHING!”
He scoops her up and winces. “Oof, careful there, Jellybean. Still got ribs.”
“You beat them up!”
