Thanks muchly to armandlegg and underthepiano. For bunchofgrapes, because I promised.
He laces up his skates with the precision and ease of someone who belongs on the ice. Though his back pulls when he bends to reach the lowest laces, he ignores it. Just another reminder of his bones betraying him. Jim cringes and tugs extra hard against the cotton cords and threads them through the top holes. With precise speed, he ties the knots, flexes his ankles to test the give of the skates. One hand gripping his stick, the other curled inside a glove, he stands.
"Hey Jim," a voice calls from his right. Jenny, at the snack bar, smiles and waves and he feels some sense of belonging. The fetid rink coffee that's constantly on brew reaches his nostrils and it slams him back thirty years, to a similar place in Jersey. He recalls the echo, the scent of old ice and cool sweat, the noise of puck hitting pads and bodies hitting boards.
Slowly, he stands and feels as his blades cut slightly into the rubber of the mats, the pieces fit together as though a puzzle. His gaze follows them ahead of him, as they cut to the right, to the swinging doors that lead to the ice, the black material marred by the moisture of skaters returning from their time on the ice.
Jim moves with precision, tucks a mouth guard into his mouth and a stick under his arm. Inside of his gloves, fingers flex and test the cushion, presses it down into the webbing, tight. He feels the familiar weight of a hand on his shoulder pads and looks over. "You ready, JB?"
Brass nods, smiles, "You're taking center, I don't think my knees can take that again."
"Fair enough, Chez wants center, anyway."
His teammate walks off ahead of him and Jim follows, hips protesting only the slightest bit as his gait is altered by the angle of the hockey skates. He's getting too old for this, or so people say, but he never feels as fantastically alive as he is when he's on the ice. Pushing through the doors, the atmosphere changes; it feels cavernous and cold, dank, loud, like home. Making his way to the ice, he skates through the door, past the half boards and to his teams' bench.
The worn, battered wood is occupied by old friends and new, colleagues, retirees, all men like him, all men who don't allow their age to dictate their pastime, their hobbies, their passions. Each of these men played in the era before helmets were required, when boarding someone was more about putting the puck up than about revenge, when your teammates weren't just friends but family. His spot on the bench is unoccupied and he sits himself down, murmuring hellos to those around him.
He's quiet.
He's in the zone.
The referee makes his way out onto the ice and makes a loop around before pausing in front of their bench. "Faceoff in five," he nods and moves to the other bench and informs them of the same.
It's a rush, every time. The anticipation in his gut flutters and he swallows against the rise of excitement and fear; it's like this always, always. The thrill of flying, that's what always got him, the tempo and rush of the people and the puck. The sensations too, as his blades cut to a stop, as his body hit another and ricocheted. Everything fresh and crisp and fast.
Sticks clatter behind him, men chatting and arguing, the cut and hiss of metal on frozen water.
His head is down towards the ice, his eyes on the centers at the ready.
Suddenly, the puck is to him and he handles it easily, like his hands move independently of his brain, like it's instinct. He passes it around the boards, behind the goal and it's picked up by his left wing, sent to the top of the circle for a shot on net. The goalie holds it easily, and they're set for another face off, Jim with his jaw clenched and stick motionless.
The puck hits the ice and he cuts at it, manages a quick handle and sends it back towards the net. The puck hitting the goalie pads is audible and Brass feels a swell of pride for the accurate slap shot, even if it didn't slip through. He maneuvers back as the opposing team's offense picks it up and moves it down the ice, past the blue line, dangerously close to their net. But Mike, their goalie, saves the shot easily, sends it out behind the net for the right defense to skate it up.
He's all over the ice, forward and defensively, angling in and out of the other team, opening himself up for long passes, for assists.
He can't hear anything, not his own thoughts, not the shouts from the few people in the stands. All he hears is the slap of the puck and the ice giving way to sharp metal. It's this, this, it's his escape.
And when he knocks a shot past the opposing goalie, something inside of him lets go, and he's free.