Across the screen, Buck drops onto the narrow penalty box bench. The linesman swings the door shut behind him and skates off, already looking for the next problem.
Buck reaches up and pulls off his helmet.
His hair is dark with sweat, flattened in some places, sticking up in others where the helmet’s left its imprint. Damp strands cling to his forehead, curling slightly at the edges. He drags a hand back through it once, pushing it out of his eyes, then leans forward with his elbows on his knees while he catches his breath.
Eddie realizes he’s staring, not just watching. Staring.
His pen has stopped moving entirely.
On the broadcast, the camera lingers for a second longer than it probably should, close enough to catch the flush still high on Buck’s cheekbones, the slow rise and fall of his chest as his breathing steadies.
Eddie clears his throat quietly and looks down at his notebook.
He quickly writes
—— Buckley — 5 min fighting
The line on paper is a little darker than the others.
When he glances back up, just to confirm the box time, he tells himself, Buck is still there, helmet resting beside him, forearms braced on his thighs. He flexes his knuckles once, jaw working like he’s replaying something in his head.
Eddie watches that, too.
Then he forces himself to write again.
—— Panthers are still escalating physical play.
The words feel safer on the page than the direction his attention keeps drifting.
Eddie underlines physical. A little harder than necessary. His handwriting stays neat, controlled. But the margin beside the fight note stays circled.
The words stare back at him.
Eddie exhales slowly and taps the pen once against the paper.
“Buck, you’re an idiot,” he murmurs, but there’s not an ounce of heat behind it.
