"Tonight, the Gophers will take the ice against Oregon, in the first NCAA match since the draft was reinstated exactly one year ago today. Both team's rosters have been reduced in number because of the draft, and both teams have lost players in the conflict overseas. Before the game tonight, the names of those men who have died overseas will be read, and a moment of silence taken. This year, all athletes in NCAA competition will wear black armbands on their sleeves as reminders—"
Charlie reached over and flicked off the radio, preferring to drive in silence rather than listen to the media talk about the significance of tonight's game. Around him, snow blanketed the landscape, fresh fallen, pure white, pristine. Soon, it would become slushy and gray with sand and salt, but for now, it was untouched, undisturbed.
Mariucci Arena loomed in the distance, a large brick building, unmoved by years in the Minnesota cold. Charlie parked his car in one of the far lots, grabbed his bag from the trunk, and started walking. He had an hour before he needed to be on the ice for warm ups, and he really didn't mind the cold.
Tonight, there would be a brief ceremony before the game to remember those who had died overseas. Minnesota's roster had been thinned dramatically by the draft, and everyone on the team had felt the losses. Adam was not the only one to pay the ultimate price.
When Charlie saw the coffin, he couldn't hold it in anymore. The grief hit him like a tidal wave, rushing over him, cutting him down, taking his breath away. He crouched down in front of the casket, sobbing uncontrollably. He was 20 years old. He wasn't supposed to be saying goodbye to his best friend. They still had so many years to go. His heart felt like it was breaking in two, his insides like they were being torn apart. He felt hands on his shoulders, heard voices around him, but they were of no comfort. Adam would never be there again, nagging him to clean up his side of the dorm, teasing him about flubbed passes, scoring two goals a game, topping the NCAA scoring standings. Adam was gone. He wasn't coming back.
"Adam Banks." Charlie took a deep breath and skated out to center ice, Adam's jersey tucked protectively in his arms. The arena was silent, except for the soft scrape of his skates against the smooth ice. With extra care, he unfolded the jersey in his arms and laid it on the ice, the number 9 and "Banks" facing up toward heaven. Feeling something clench hard inside his chest, Charlie touched the black armband on his sleeve, then reached his fingers to the ice. A single tear slipped down his cheek and fell on the frozen surface beneath his fingertips. The silence around him was deafening. Get up, he told himself, you have to. You have to get up. You have to keep going.
The flag over Adam's casket was folded and handed to Adam's mother, and Charlie, cheeks already streaked with tears, bowed his head again. It was too much. The finality, the brutality, the reality of it all. He couldn't imagine it, couldn't imagine turning around and not seeing Adam there, after so many years of playing first line with him. He couldn't imagine walking into the dorm and not being greeted by his best friend. He couldn't imagine living like this.
They lowered the casket into the ground, and Charlie felt like someone was stabbing him in the heart. How could this be real?
The pass was perfect, and Charlie's body reacted faster than he could think. Pulling back just slightly on his sprint, he took a quick glance at the net, picked his spot and returned his attention to the ice. His shot was like an arrow, straight and true, clanging against the post and rippling the back of the net. The arena around him seemed to explode with noise, and he wheeled around, unbelievably happy and gut-wrenchingly grief stricken at the same time. So he did the only thing that made sense at the moment: he raised his hand to the heavens, a single finger pointed skyward, as if tracing the trajectory his friend's spirit had taken months ago.
This one's for you, Adam.