Page 98 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
I post it to Instagram.
BECKETT
The ice is the only thing that still makes sense.
Six days since the mall. Six days since I stood in a parking lot and made the worst decision of my life while my agent told me it was the best one.
I’m skating laps. Alone. Everyone else cleared out an hour ago. The Zamboni driver has made three pointed passes along the boards in the universal language of Sir, I need to resurface, and you are preventing me from doing my job. I’ve ignored him the way I’ve been ignoring everything for six days.
The media is calling me a hero. Channel 5 ran a segment titled “Blue Line Hero.” WCCO did a three-part feature. My name is attached to words like courage and selfless action, and every time I see the headline, I want to put my fist through the screen.
I do another lap.
The past week has turned my life into a feeding frenzy. Sharks in the water. They smell blood. Everyone’s out for a story. Sponsors are clamoring for a deal. Rick’s using the whole thing as leverage in my contract renewal. Cole’s situation is less tidy. Arrested the morning we walked out. Fined. Suspended from the team indefinitely—the league’s still sorting out exactly how long. His mom’s medical bills are still real. His mistake was real. I don’t know yet how I feel about any of it.
Apparently, now that my name’s been cleared, all’s been forgotten.
Like it never even happened.
Another lap.
“The hero narrative plays great, Beckett. The organization loves it,” Rick said.
Great. That’s just fan-freakin’-tastic.
I should feel victorious. Instead, I’m hollow. Nothing but emptiness where the anger used to sit. Well…nothing except indecision.
Yesterday, I came to practice resigned to keep my head down, put the puck in the net, and stay away from any and all media until the whole ordeal blew over. By the time I stepped off the ice, my phone was seizing in my locker.
Puck’s in your zone, Batman.
The post is beyond viral. It’s got over two million likes. Forty thousand reposts. People tagging me with comments:
@romancediva95: Come on, @BlueLineBeck, call the girl.
@BlueOxFan: @BlueLineBeck, pick up the puck.
@hockeymama56: Some hero. Are we just going to pretend we didn’t hear him call her nobody?
The world is divided. Should he get the girl, or not?
I haven’t called her.
Six days. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I pick up the phone. Put it down. Type a message. Delete it. Type another. Delete that. The cycle has become its own kind of skating—repetitive, going nowhere. I’m such a coward.
What would I even say? I’m sorry, my career was on the line. So I sprayed ice in your face—metaphorically speaking. Because that’s what I do, apparently.
That one is accurate.
Head Coach Jace Jacobsen’s voice breaks up the rhythmic slice of my skates. “Benson. Coach Hart wants to see you in his office. Now.”
Coach Hart wants to see me. Six days after I called his daughter nobody on television.
I consider my options. Skate until the Zamboni driver decides to run me over. Retire from hockey and relocate to a remote island.
Doesn’t matter. Neither of those scenarios would stop Coach Hart from finding me.
I step off the ice.
