Penalty Shot

For having the job that I do, I can't say I've ever seen the appeal of playing hockey. Who would want to spend all their time and energy racing from one end of a stadium to another chasing a puck with a stick? And you have to stay upright on ice skates while you do it? Let's face it, most of us are only watching because of the sweaty jocks who flex more muscles than anyone else has. My name is Julian Vance, a 24-year-old sports analyst and public relations agent for my university's hockey team. You may be asking how someone with no passion for hockey winds up not just taking a job like mine, but becoming the best at it. How did I go from being an editorial journalist writing uneducated critiques on the brutality and barbarism of ice hockey to telling the world why my team is the best? His name was Milo Price. He was #11 for the Snowcats, our university's hockey team. He was one of the league's most promising, most agile, and most ambitious forwards. He was voted MVP and had dozens of agents after him, as well as about a million fans, regardless of gender. He was the player who put me in my place when I made the mistake of critiquing one of his games and said I was woefully misinformed. He was the love of my life and the man I wanted to be with for the rest of it. That was my life. That was before the "accident". The "Unhappy Triad" is what everyone liked calling it; it's the simultaneous tearing of the ACL, MCL, and medial meniscus in the knee, all the critical structures that stabilize and cushion the joint and allow for the explosive lateral movement needed to skate professionally. In simple terms, your knee is left too f****d up to skate. The cause of this travesty in hockey is typically high-speed knee-on-knee contact, usually as an asshole's attempt to take a player out of the game, sometimes permanently. Who was the asshole in this scenario? Jaxson Reed. #55 for the Winter Wolves, archrivals of the Snowcats. Known in the league as "Jax the Enforcer" or "the Ice Tyrant". In a world where Milo was the prince, Jaxson is his archnemesis. And mine. Jaxson is known for being a vicious, overly-aggressive bulldozer of a man whose favorite tactic is victory by annihilation. Off the ice, he's an arrogant hothead and a PR nightmare for his agents, coaches, and his university altogether. He's a walking keg of gunpowder looking for a spark. Jaxson and Milo were facing off in a championship game. It was a nail-biter of a match. My face was pressed up to the glass so hard I could've fallen through it. Milo was in the zone that night, gliding over the ice like an eagle over clouds. I remember his smile as I blew him one last kiss before the deciding play. The second that whistle blew, he was across the arena faster than I could watch, with Jaxson charging at him like a rhino. All I did was blink. That's how quickly it happened. One second, Milo was maneuvering to stick-handle past him along the blue line. The next he was on the ice crying out in agony. As Milo had cut sideways, Jaxson had extended his leg, throwing a knee-on-knee hit at full speed, bringing that gliding eagle right down to the ground, feathers flying and everything! I don't think I even breathed until I was in the ambulance, Milo's hand crushing mine, watching through my tears as the strongest man I knew crumbled in pain, panic, and despair. I lived off nothing but coffee and anxiety for days after that, watching and listening as nurses and doctors put him through the wringer of medical science. Surgery after surgery trying desperately to repair the damage; the university insisted that no expense be spared, no option be dismissed, nothing be refused for their champion. One of the perks of being engaged to a star athlete was that skipping work and classes was easy. In fact, everyone insisted if only so I could bring back the good news that he was going to be alright, that their champion would glide again. Jaxson was anathematized, outcast and despised for trying to destroy an MVP. There were talks of suspension or even expulsion from the league. The universities fought about just punishment, about whether he should be made to pay for Milo's care, or if he should simply be excommunicated completely. Admittedly, I didn't really have the bandwidth to follow the drama that ensued, but I remember seeing Jaxson's face on the TV, his attorney arguing that the whole incident was little more than a "tragic accident" and a "common enough affliction" in sports like hockey. Jaxson just stood there with no expression anywhere on his face; he could've been on trial for serial murder and no one would know it. Sitting by Milo's hospital bed, clutching his hand, no tears left to cry, I looked at that man's face on the TV. I'd never hated him more. The next year of my life was a living hell. Getting Milo out of the hospital and back home was simple but heartbreaking, watching as this man who had never depended on me for anything but love and support was plunged into needing my help with everything from getting food to using the bathroom (the details of which we swore never to discuss). I didn't blame him for being grumpy and depressed, and I did my best not to snap back or cry when he got angry about me fussing over him. I tried to keep his spirits up and make the best of the life we had, but with every grueling day that passed, the Milo I once knew slipped further and further away. For that whole year, I was his everything. I made sure he ate and took his meds every day whether he wanted to or not, I spent hours on the phone fighting with doctors and insurance agents about his care, and I whisked him around to every appointment a man could need in a lifetime. After months of healing came months of physical therapy, muscle rehab, strength training, evaluations and scans. I truly thought if I could just fight hard enough that everything would go back to the way it was. But after that hellish year, the final verdict was passed. Milo would never skate again. We drove home in absolute silence that night, no stops for dinner, no celebrating his ability to walk again, not even arguing about how miserable the situation was. Milo just sat there in the passenger seat staring out the window while I quietly drove us back to our house. I remember pulling into the driveway that night, looking up at our beautifully blue two-story home, the one we'd bought together, where we'd planned on being married and growing old together. I remember it was a cold rainy night, and the house looked like it was crying. Milo practically leaped from the car when I parked, partly because he didn't want me to try and help him again but partly because there was nothing to say. It was over.