Emerie
I listen to the TV guys analyze what happened, and I’m actually yelling at the TV. It’s not that I don’t care that someone was hurt—I do! I don’t want that guy to be injured. But to think that Owen did it on purpose—that’s crazy!
I watched it happen, and yeah, it was fast, but he was just trying to stop Schneider from scoring. They’re saying he skated all the way from the other end of the rink to hit him, but that’s not what happened.
Finally, I have to stop watching. I can’t take it anymore. The other players are threatening Owen, the TV guys are saying it was dirty, it was intentional, and he should be suspended. And I just keep seeing that look on Owen’s face. I keep thinking about how he must be feeling. And I’m hurting for him.
I pace around the apartment. Owen won’t be home until about three in the morning, likely, maybe later. I can’t sit still, though, and I sure as hell can’t fall asleep. I’m a mess. I’m angry. I’m worried. I’m frustrated. Agitated.
I do get into bed and try to read. I think I doze off for a while. Then I hear Owen come in the door. I clamber out of bed, tangled in the covers, and rush to him, my stomach in more knots than a macrame wall hanging.
He looks destroyed. His face is stiff, his skin flushed. His tie hangs loose around his neck.
I start toward him to hug him.
He shakes his head and holds a hand up. “Just…leave me alone. I’m not in the best mood right now.”
“I know. I watched the game. I just want to hug you and make you feel better.”
“You can’t make me feel better.” He tosses his coat over a chair and plods toward the bedroom.
I watch, my fingers twisted together, my eyes hot, my chest aching. I’ve never in my life hurt so much for another person. It startles me.
I feel so helpless. I can’t change things. I can’t make things better. I also can’t just leave him alone. I pad to the bedroom after him.
Ignoring what he told me, I walk up to him and wrap my arms around him. He’s taken off his suit jacket. His body is rigid, vibrating with tension. Heat pours off him, the fabric of his dress shirt damp. I press my face to his chest. He’s smells freshly showered but his unique scent as always fills me up.
Slowly, he lifts his arms to hug me back. The vibrating increases, turning to trembling. A raw, tortured sound rises from his chest. I squeeze him tighter. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”
His arms band around me, and we stand like that for a long time. I feel the hard shudders that work through him, the rough noises of repressed sobs. He cups my head and clasps me to him, pressing his face against my hair. I just hold him, tears stinging my own eyes at his pain.
The world narrows to us, in this room, in the darkness. I would do anything to take this pain away. It’s unbearable to me that he’s suffering like this. A fist squeezes my throat, cutting off my breath, making my lungs burn.
I hold him. It’s all I can do.
“I could have killed him.” His voice is ragged and raw.
“You didn’t.”
“I could have. I hurt him. What if I ended his career? What if—”
“He’s okay,” I interrupt gently. “He wasn’t admitted to the hospital. They checked him and released him.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was watching all the coverage. That’s what they said.”
His body is tense, and then he lets out a long exhalation and relaxes slightly. “Oh.” He falls silent again. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“I know. I know. I knew right away.”
“Thank you.” He rubs his face against my hair. “Thank you.”
Owen doesn’t go anywhere the next day, just broods and wanders around the apartment. He’s been scheduled for an in person hearing tomorrow with the Department of Player Safety. Apparently, this means it could be really bad. Meanwhile, he’s suspended
I torment myself by reading the coverage of the incident online.
Schneider has a concussion and won’t be playing for a while. Concussions are bad, but I’m relieved that he’s not hurt worse, after seeing him taken off on a stretcher. Just thinking that makes me nauseous. I know Owen was torturing himself thinking about how bad it could be.
I even search the rules to find out what a charging penalty is, exactly. I just want to understand. I read the rules and, yes, I guess Owen did deserve a charging penalty. He did travel a fair distance, but I still believe he didn’t do that with the intent of hitting the other player. He was trying to stop a goal.
The media gets quotes from other players on the Caribou, who of course say that it was dirty and unnecessary, that Owen didn’t even try to play the puck. They talk to Easton, who stands up for Owen, saying, “I’ve known Cookie for a long time and he is not a dirty player. The last thing he’d ever want to do is hurt someone. There’s no way that was intentional. I’m sure he hates that Brent is hurt.” Owen’s coach even says that he thought the hit was clean and unfortunately Schneider had his head down trying to score the goal.
But it’s when I’m reading some of the comments on different fan accounts that I freak out. Not only are the Caribou players calling Owen names, the fans are, and it’s way worse.
My mouth drops open in horror as I see people saying they hope the Caribou intentionally injure Owen and lay him out on a stretcher; saying there should be a target on Owen; and then I gasp when I read that “his parents should pay for this, too.”
What?
I swallow. I have to tell Owen about this. But I don’t want him to read this shit.
It turns out I don’t have to tell him, because his dad calls him. He goes into the bedroom to talk to him, and comes out looking even worse. Totally defeated, with a slump to his big shoulders I’ve never seen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my stomach tossing. I rub the hem of my sweater back and forth between my fingers.
His jaw looks tight enough to break his teeth. “Someone spray painted my parents’ house.”
“What? Oh my God.”
“They wrote ‘Cooke must pay.’”
My eyes spring wide. “Oh no!” I press my hands to my mouth. “Dear God.”
“And someone came up to my mom in the grocery store and told her he hopes I get my neck broken.” He shakes his head, his mouth a thin line. “What the fuck.”
“What is wrong with people? That’s nuts!”
“Mom was crying.” His voice breaks. “I fucking made her cry.”
I frown. “You didn’t make her cry. Some asshole did.”
“It was because of me.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “They’ve been through enough, for Chrissake. They don’t deserve this. And it’s because of me. Fuck.” He sits on the couch, his shoulders slumped.
Oh my God. A dark swirl of pain rips through me.
“I’ve tried so hard,” he continues, head down. “I’ve worked so hard.”
“I know. I know you have.” Everything inside me hurts, my chest squeezing painfully. Is this what’s driving his need to work so hard at hockey? His brother? He never talks about his brother, other than that night he told me about him. And now he feels like he’s let his parents down?