Luc circled the goal twice, turned, and circled it in the opposite direction. He stopped within the crease, slapped his stick on the posts, and crossed himself. Jane took out her notebook, a pen, and her Post-Its. On the top note she wrote: Superstitions and rituals?
The puck dropped, and all at once the sounds of the game rushed at her, the clash of sticks, scraping of skates on ice, and the puck slamming into the boards. The fans screamed and cheered and the smells of pizza and Budweiser soon hung in the air.
In preparation, Jane had viewed many game tapes. While she knew the game to be fast-paced, the tapes had not conveyed the frenetic energy or the way that energy infected the crowd. When play stopped, infractions were announced from the sound system and music blared until the puck was once more dropped and the team centers hacked it out.
As Jane took note of everything around her, she discovered what the tapes, and even television, did not show. The action wasn’t always where the puck was being played. A lot of the activity took place in the corners with punches and blows while the puck was at center ice. On several occasions she watched Luc whack the ankles of a Phoenix player unfortunate enough to stand within whacking distance. He seemed very good at hooking Coyote skates with his stick, and when he stuck out his arm and clothes lined Coyote Claude Lemieux, two men behind Jane jumped up and yelled, “You play like a girly man, Martineau!”
Whistles blew, the play stopped, and as Claude Lemieux picked himself up off the ice, the penalty was announced. “Martineau, roughing, two minutes.”
Because a goalie could not do time in the sin bin, Bruce Fish took his place. As Fish skated to the penalty box, Luc simply picked up his water bottle from the top of the net, shot a stream through the cage into his mouth, then spit it out. He shrugged, rolled his head from side to side, and tossed the bottle back onto the net.
Game on.
The pace fluctuated from wild to almost orderly. Almost. Just when Jane thought both teams had decided to play nice, the scrum for the puck turned physical. And nothing brought the crowd to their feet like the sight of players throwing their gloves and mixing it up in the corner. She couldn’t actually hear what the players were saying to each other, but she didn’t need to. She could clearly read their lips. The F-word seemed a real favorite. Even by the coaches who stood behind the bench in mild-mannered suits and ties. And when the players on the bench weren’t swearing, they were spitting. She’d never seen men spit so much.
Jane noticed that the heckling from the crowd was not limited to the Chinooks’ goalie. Anytime a Seattle player came within hollering distance, the men behind Jane yelled, “You suck!” After several Budweisers, they got more creative: “You suck, eighty-nine,” or thirty-nine, or whatever the player’s number.
Fifteen minutes into the first period, Rob Sutter checked a Coyote into the boards, and the Plexiglas shook so hard Jane thought it would crack. The player slid to the ice and the whistles blew.
“You suck, Hammer,” the men behind Jane yelled, and she wondered if the players could hear the fans over the collective noise. She knew she’d have to drink a lot of alcohol before she had the courage to tell the Hammer he sucked. She’d be too afraid he’d meet her in the parking lot later and “feed her lunch.”
After the first two periods, the score remained zero-zero, mostly due to some amazing saves by both goaltenders. But the Coyotes came out strong in the third. The team’s captain broke through the Chinook defense and sped down ice toward the Chinooks’ goal. Luc came out of the crease to meet him, but the captain snipered a shot passed his left shoulder. Luc got a piece of it with his stick, but the puck waffled and sailed into the net.
The crowd jumped to their feet as Luc skated to the goal. He calmly placed his stick and blocker on top of the net. As the blinking blue light announced the goal, he pushed his mask to the top of his head, picked up his water bottle, and shot water into his mouth. From where Jane sat, she watched him in profile. His cheek was slightly flushed, his damp hair stuck to his temple. A stream of water ran from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and neck, and wet the collar of his jersey. He lowered the bottle, tossed it on the cage, and shoved his hand into his blocker.
“Eat me, Martineau!” one of the men behind her yelled. “Eat me!”
Luc glanced up and one of Jane’s questions was answered. He’d clearly heard the men behind her. Without expression of any sort, he simply looked at them. He picked up his stick and lowered his gaze until it landed on Jane. He stared at her for several long seconds before he turned and skated to the Chinooks’ bench. Jane couldn’t tell what he thought of the two men, but she had bigger concerns than Luc’s feelings. She crossed her fingers and hoped like hell the Chinooks made a goal within the next fifteen minutes.
We have to remember we’re dealing with hockey players. You know they can be real superstitious, Leonard had warned. If the Chinooks start losing games, you’ll get blamed and sent packing. After the way they were already treating her, Jane figured they didn’t need much of an excuse.
It took them fourteen minutes and twenty seconds, but they finally scored on a power play. When the last buzzer sounded, the score was tied, and Jane let out a relieved breath.
Game over, or so she thought. Instead five more minutes were put on the clock, while four skaters and the goaltenders battled it out in overtime. Neither team scored and the game went into the record book as a tie.
Now Jane could breathe easy. They couldn’t blame her for their loss and send her packing.
She gathered her purse and shoved her notebook and pen inside. She headed to the Chinooks’ locker room, flashing her press pass. Her stomach twisted into knots as she moved down the hall. She was a professional. She could do this. No problem.
Keep your gaze pinned to their eyes, she reminded herself as she took out her small tape recorder. She entered the room and stopped as if the bottoms of her Doc Martins were suddenly glued to the floor. Men in various degrees of undress stood in front of benches and open stalls, peeling off their clothes. Hard muscles and sweat. Bare chests and backs. A flash of a naked stomach and butt, and…
Good Lord! Her cheeks burned and her eyes about jumped from her skull as she couldn’t help but stare at Vlad “the Impaler” Fetisov’s Russian-sized package. Jane jerked her gaze up, but not before she discovered that what she’d heard about European men was true. Vlad wasn’t circumcised, and that was just a little more info than she wanted. For one brief second she thought she should mumble an apology, but of course she couldn’t apologize, because that would be admitting that she’d seen something. She glanced at the other male reporters and they weren’t apologizing. So why did she feel like she was in high school peeking in the boys’ locker room?
You’ve seen a penis before, Jane. No big deal. If you’ve seen one penis, you’ve seen them all… Well, okay, that’s not true. Some penises are better than others. Stop! Stop thinking about penises! she chastened herself. You’re not here to stare. You’re here to do a job, and you have just as much right to be here as male reporters do. It’s the law, and you’re a professional. Yeah, that’s what she told herself as she wove her way through players and other journalists, careful to keep her gaze above the shoulders, but she was the only female in a room filled with big, rugged, naked hockey players. She couldn’t help but feel very much out of place.