5 minute read
Ringing, Steph Gratiano ’20
Steph Gratiano ’20
Ringing
He realized the ringing in his ears was actually a ringing in the whole arena, the buzzer loud enough to cajole the plexiglass into emitting a hum of its own, harmonizing with the fan’s angry groans behind him and the glass vibrating still from the force of the slam. His nose emitted a buzz of its own, the nexus of a swarm of concerned medics dabbing at the blood oozing from his nostril. He batted them away. The buzzer he missed hadn’t ended the game, only the period, and he needed to get back. He could be subbed in at the next opportunity.
“—Hey, hey, Sammy, you good?” Coach Josten’s salt and pepper stubble loomed into his field of vision, calloused fingers darting over his temple. The buzzer stopped abruptly, but the energy persisted in the figures flying across the ice, the furious tapping and sliding marking the victory cries of the blurs in black and the slow whine against the ice as players caught their edges and flew. Black, white, fading red.
He blinked, once, twice. Wasn’t that a punchline to something? What’s black and white and bled all over—
Coach Josten’s hand on his shoulder nudged him back to reality. No, that was just him. His forehead, actually. He doesn’t remember taking his gloves off, but his hands were bare and pale and came away bloody from the oozing gash by his temple.
Coach jostled him again, gentler than usual but insistent. “You’re going to the clinic after we get back, you understand—”
“Put me back on, it’s fine.” Coach laughed, an incredulous noise forced from somewhere in the back of his throat in lieu of a response. He stared evenly at the spot between those graying eyebrows, waiting for the ice to stop panning in and out of focus.
“God, Sammy, you lost consciousness. Hopefully, you aren’t so brain damaged you thought they’d let me put you back in after that.” Coach shook his head and took off his hat, pushing perspiration and relief back through his hair before repositioning it. “Clinic. After. For now, just sit tight.”
The last period ended with more ringing in his ears, this time from his teammates’ cheers of a job well done. It was a decisive Lions’ victory, a
good omen of things to come this season, so he was allowed back on ice for the celebratory embrace, a writhing pile of black and yellow that ends with more people grinning up from the ice than standing victorious. He’d barely stumbled away from the nexus before the refs pushed him back toward the lockers and Coach’s stern look.
The whooping in the locker room hurt his head, the mats doing a poor job of absorbing the slamming and cheering even in the corner Josten herded him into. Changing, packing, tuning out Josten’s thinly veiled worrying— these things were automatic, finely tuned from months of practice.
“You don’t need to be that aggressive, you crazy bastard.”
He shrugged, twisted the golden band on his finger. However annoyed Coach was, Anna was going to be worse. “Take me to the clinic, and I’ll be good for the Titans game.” His jersey didn’t provide much warmth, but he slid it over his hoodie anyway, if only to mark himself as one of the victors. He’d be congratulated on a game well-played with the rest of his team, even if his major contribution to the game had been a crazy penalty—or maybe just an accident. He wasn’t really sure how he’d ended up on the bench, hadn’t really cared to clarify after Coach made it permanent.
“A pain in my ass is what you’ll be, and always be—”
The ringing in his ears amplified his headache to something unbearable. He flexed his jaw–anything to relieve the pressure cresting, god, his eyes were going to explode—
He wasn’t just on the bench, he was completely horizontal, an ice pack pressed to his forehead and a light shining into his eye. He swiped at the glare with a groan, barely squeezing his eyes shut in time to hide how much his eyes had watered from that small movement.
“Sammy, you need to—”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Put me back on, Coach. It takes more than a broken nose.”
Josten squinted at him. “Broken nose,” he drew it out. “Right. Because that’s all this is.”
There was sarcasm there. He didn’t appreciate it.
“I said,” he said, in a vicious mockery of Josten’s drawl, “I’m fine.”
Josten didn’t seem convinced, one eyebrow rising slowly at his sharp tone. And normally, the injury would be enough to retire him for the rest of the game, and his tone would mean suicides at practice, but—it was too close for comfort, Sam was a crowd favorite, watching someone play with a visible but not severe injury looked good in the columns—Coach practiced balancing PR and strategy the way Sam practiced sprints and stops. Harmon Wins The Lion’s Share: A Titans’ Defeat in Last Night’s Match. “Ok,” he said slowly. “Not next period, though. Just promise me that—”
Sam didn’t hear anything else.
His ears were ringing.
“Coach, put me—”
“No, Sammy. You’re done.”
He pushed himself up. Someone shoved past him, shoulder pads colliding as someone else stepped onto the ice and skated into position—into his position. No. No way, there was no way he would let that rookie finish what he’d started. Not against the Hornets. He lurched forward.
“I said you’re done, Harmon.” The coach stepped between him and the ice, and crumpled under his punch. He went to step past him onto the ice, and more people sprung up in between them, dragging him off, away—he thrashed. They needed to win, they needed his assists, they needed him—
He stilled, all at once, awareness snapping back as he was forced from the box. He’d hit Coach, he’d—he’d be lucky if he wasn’t benched for the season—
Numb, he stumbled away from the crowd, into the locker room. He opened his locker, ripped off his glove, threw it down. The rest of his gear came off slowly, his pounding head allowing only small, ginger movement. Sweats and a plain shirt went on in place of his gear. A ring slid back onto his finger. He ran his fingers over his jersey and let it fall into his bag. God knew if he’d be wearing either in the near future—he’d probably have to beg coach not to bench him—
There was ringing.
Back in the locker room, game over. Another job well done. Out of the gear, street clothes on. The cold air biting at his bare hands. Red and white jerseys swirling around him.
Ringing—
