Spoken Like a Champion

She's all I ever think about anymore. She continually occupies my thoughts, day in and day out, and as hard as I try, I cannot stop. She was my best friend, the one person I could confide in; tell all of my secrets to without judgment. She kept me company when I was lonely, listened to my rants without objection, came to all of my hockey games and somehow accepted me despite my quirks, vices and idiosyncrasies. She was, for all intents and purposes, my other half. Granted, we only knew each other for a little more than three years; however, in that three years' time, I became closer to her than to anyone I've played hockey with. Perhaps that was partly due to the fact that I fell in love with her.

I don't know what it was about her. She wasn't stunningly gorgeous (but that is by no means an insult to her) and was a little strange at times. She dabbled in things that I couldn't even imagine being a fan of, for example, her inherent interest in biochemistry and her obvious love for quilting. We were seemingly polar opposites, but we somehow fit together like lock and key. Our personalities perfectly meshed together and, much to my delight, people often mistook us for an "item".

We were spent as much time as we could with each other that summer. Both she and I knew about the looming date of her entrance into Carleton University and my own entrance into professional hockey, and had planned a glorious summer of road trips to nowhere in particular. We went just about anywhere: Niagara Falls, Ottawa, Lake Superior, Winnipeg and some random cities located near our hometown of Thunder Bay. As far as I can remember, that summer was the best three months of my life.

I'm not sure what brought on my reminiscence, but I'm wishing I could relive all of that, and gain her friendship again. I haven't the slightest clue where she went after graduating from university, but one thing I knew for sure: she wasn't in Thunder Bay, and as far as I could tell, she wasn't in Raleigh, either.

"Eric."

I look up; my brother Jared was the source of the voice. "What is it?" I question.

"You spaced out again. What's going on?"

I look around; I forgot what I was doing in the first place. I'm at Jared's new apartment, helping him get settled into his new place, apparently. A paint roller is in my right hand, and it is covered with a light grey pigment. Some dripped onto my right foot.

I look back at Jared's questioning eyes and let out a small breath. "Do you remember Amy?"

"Amy... Järvinen? That chick you always hung out with in high school?"

I frown at him slightly, as I felt as though he used the phrase "that chick" rather loosely and disrespectfully, but I give him a small nod anyway.

"What about her?"

I look away from my brother and resume painting the wall. "I miss her," I state plainly. "I can't stop thinking about her. Was she in Thunder Bay last time you were home?"

I hear him sigh from behind me. "I can't tell you much, Eric. All I know is her parents moved to Finland. I'm not sure if she went with them or not."

I stop painting and turn back around to look at Jared, shock evident on my features. "Who told you that?"

"Mom did. She and dad helped them pack up their stuff."

I sigh again and return to my painting. I have lost all hope of ever seeing her again. She always told me in high school that she'd love to go to Finland to meet the rest of her family, but her parents didn't want to leave Thunder Bay before she graduated from high school. Now that she's finished college, she has no reason to stay in Canada.

We finished up painting Jared's room in good time; it took us a bit over two hours to finish it. Jared offered to take me out for lunch as thanks for helping him move into his apartment, but I declined, telling him I had to pack for Ottawa, as we had a game there in a few days.

He gave me that awkward clap-up/one-armed hug that all people with the XY chromosome seem to do, instead of just a handshake. I just smiled at him and said "you're welcome" when he, once again, thanked me for helping him get settled in Raleigh.

I got back to my place and started packing for our trip to Ottawa. It's not like I needed much stuff: just a few shirts and pairs of pants, a suit and all necessary toiletries needed for a two-day trip. I just like being ready early, otherwise I'd forget completely.

You know, living in an apartment all by your lonesome isn't very fun. In fact, it kind of sucks, especially when all you want to think about is a certain someone with whom you want to be. It sucks since I fall into this category right now; I haven't stopped thinking about Amy for awhile, which I know sounds kind of creepy, but I can't really help it.

I try to keep my mind off of her by thinking about the game in Ottawa. It's one of our first of the regular season. Last year, we didn't do too well. This year, we're going to kick some butt. I smile at this. Maybe this is our year. Maybe we'll win the Stanley Cup, but of course, I'm getting ahead of myself. Just one game at a time, Staal.

Three days passed rather slowly in my apartment. I was thrilled to be able to play regular season hockey again, as we haven't had a game for five days. Before I knew it, I was boarding the plane that would take us to Ottawa with my brother and seated myself next to him. We wound up playing poker to pass the time on the two and a half hour flight from Raleigh to Ottawa.

Upon arriving in Ottawa, we were escorted to the hotel where we'd be staying for the next few days. We have practice today at Scotiabank Arena, but have a few hours to kill before then, so I caught up on the news and, more importantly, my sleep.

I'm not sure how much time passed since I fell asleep, but Jared, who decided for himself that he'd room with me, rudely shakes me awake and frantically tells me that everyone is leaving for practice now. This fact didn't really sink in until I realize that none of my crap for hockey is organized. As quickly as I can, I gather up all of my stuff and rush out the door with my youngest sibling trailing behind me.

Practice is nothing special today. Coach made us do drills and play a practice game, and that's about it. He talked to me about some stuff, but I honestly wasn't paying attention then, so what he actually told me is slipping my mind at the moment.

Anyway, none of that really matters. What's important is that we have a game tomorrow and we need to win it to come back from last year's sad attempt at playing hockey.

The first period of our game against Ottawa started about ten minutes ago. So far both of our teams seem evenly matched, which, the way I see it, is pretty good since Ottawa was fifth in the Eastern Conference last year.

Coach called my line out. We were in our defensive zone on a penalty kill, so I parked myself on the blue line to intercept any passes made to the offensive zone. Gleason, one of our defenders, lobs the puck over our heads and down the ice. I haul ass after that puck, eventually catching up to it, and shot it at the net.

I notice that the red light above the net went on; I throw my hands up in the air in a celebratory fashion. My teammates crowd around me, all smiles.

Then, I looked out into the crowd behind the Ottawa goaltender. Almost everybody there is sitting down. Of course, this isn't what caught my eye, the one person on her feet did. She was clad in one of our third jerseys, the number twelve visible on both of her sleeves. The smile she held on her face was recognizable anywhere.

Amy Järvinen, the lady who has possessed my thoughts for the past few years, is right there, in the crowd, cheering for my team. I sit back down on the bench, taking in all of this and formulating a plan for how to meet up with her after the game.

We wound up winning the game by a margin of one goal: 4-3. While everyone else was lazing about, taking their "good old sweet time" to get changed, I was rushing to get out to meet up with Amy. Jared questioned my intentions, but I told him, while running out of the locker room, that I'd tell him later.

I was running on the fact that Amy would stay for autographs. This was my only hope. I searched in a sea of black jerseys and t-shirts for a certain blonde-haired, green-eyed lady. It was difficult to see anyone in that throng, so I waited for the mass of rabid Sens fans to dissipate before looking for her again. The fans here really are obsessive, as they took quite some time before evacuating the area. But, the time I wasted waiting was, fortunately, paid off: Amy stands in clear vision behind those barriers. She gives me a small wave and says, with a smile, "Nice goal, Staal."

I say "thanks" in return. Awkward silence engulfs us. I assume I either tell her now, or she never finds out, so I draw in a deep breath and begin talking. "I've been thinking about you a lot, which made me realize how much I've actually missed you. All of this thinking also made me realize that I have to tell you I love you, or else I may never get the chance to say it again. So I love you."

She stares at me and utters two words I never thought she'd say: "I know."

I give her a questioning look.

"In high school, I kind of always felt like you had more feelings for me than 'just friends'."

I bit back my fears and ask "What about you?"

"I don't know what to think about you, Eric. I don't know if I love you or if I just like you. Maybe you can help me make that decision."

I stare at her, but she knows the look I'm giving her means "how?"

She shrugs her shoulders, and then nonchalantly says, "Kiss me."

"What? Now?"

She shrugs her shoulders again. "Sure, why not?"

I start to sputter out nonsense, but I decide to get over it. I place both of my hands on either side of her waist to pull her closer and touch my lips lightly to hers. I pull away a few seconds later, so I don't seem too overbearing.

I look at her, awaiting a response. "Eric?"

"Yes?"

"I love you, too."

I'm so elated to hear this that I pull her in for another kiss. I don't even care that I probably missed the bus back to the hotel.