Page 61 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

sometimes a win just isn’t enough

Mikhail

We’re suiting up for a home game. Aiden is jabbering on and on about a woman he took home a few nights ago and how crazy she’s been since.

“I mean, Defcon ten-level crazy,” he says with wide eyes. “Showing up with coffee and donuts one morning, unannounced. Leaving me cards at my apartment door. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Well, you’re the one who took a random chick to your apartment,” Nathan Cross chirps from his other side. “You never take the randoms to your inner sanctum.”

Aiden looks at me, and I just shrug, hands up.

“How’s your relationship going with crazy casino lady?” he asks, trying to shift the conversation.

“She’s just a friend,” I tell him. “She needs one.”

Aiden grins. “I can’t remember the last time I put my dick into one of my friends.”

“I never said I put my dick into her.” Even though I’ve not told him anything about Reagan and me, he’s probably figured it out all on his own. He did graduate Yale, as unlikely as that seems sometimes. He’s not as dumb as he pretends to be.

From the other side of the locker room, Kolochev chimes in. “Don’t worry, Aiden, Zelly’s always this cranky. It’s nothing personal.”

“Eh, the cranky ones make the best of friends sometimes,” Tyler says. “Look at me and the big dummy.”

Viktor rolls his eyes and says, “As long as you don’t try to put your dick in me.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter.

Coach Brown and the GM come in for a pre-game pep talk. Coach talks about how we’re playing fine, but he doesn’t see the old spark out there, and we need to find it. He wants to see sparks tonight.

Grant says, “I know we’ve asked you guys to try something different.

Well…different for this team. I give you all props for getting with the program, and more than that, for getting serious about your conditioning and nutrition.

It shows, at all levels. Coaching and management are all happy with the progress of the second and third string players.

The whole point of giving every player more minutes was to build a dynamic that isn’t totally dependent on six or seven guys.

The superstars are superstars for a reason.

They kick ass and take names. But what if one goes out injured?

What if one decides to hang up the skates and head to the front office?

Then what? We’re building a team that can lift itself up, no matter who’s out there, no matter the lineup. ”

A quiet moment follows, the guys reflecting, once more, on the message we’ve been hearing all year. It’s not like this style of play is different from any other organization. It’s just that our organization’s difference seemed to make the magic happen.

Of course, it’s the loudmouth that speaks up. Tyler says, “Sir, it’s all well and good what you’re saying. I get it. We all get it. Subs are part of life on the ice. But the chemistry here is between the starters and that can’t be ignored.”

We all wait, wondering if the new GM cares to hear players voices or not.

He’s a big man, Grant Gerard. He used to play, so he knows the modern game a lot better than our last GM.

He says, “Thanks for speaking up, Tyler. I understand what you’re saying.

And I know I’m just one voice among many.

The coaching staff and players all matter.

Everyone has to buy in and trust each other for this to work, and for trust to happen, we have to speak up. ”

“Well, I’m speakin’ up,” Tyler says. “And what I’m sayin’ is that you have a wicked good starting lineup that you’re sacrificing for whatever this is that you’re tryin’ to build.”

“Just give it time,” Coach Brown says. “Trust the process.”

Tyler rolls his eyes, folds his arms over his chest, and leans back against his locker, unimpressed with the process. I don’t blame him.

Grant says some more about how he wants every line to be championship strong.

The guys are restless, but no one is about to speak up after seeing Tyler get shut down.

Players’ voices matter, my ass. And it’s not that I don’t understand what they’re saying, what they’re doing.

I do. It’s just that the team’s magic has crapped out since these changes.

After the weird “pep talk,” the vibe is off.

We head out and the play is clunky. A lot of missed passes and chasing down offensive runs by the LA team.

They’re firing off shots left and right, and we can barely get our sticks on the puck.

Our goalie, Cal, is a beast, knocking back shots left and right, holding us to 0-0 in the first period. No one else seems to get their rhythm.

We break, and Coach tells us to get out of our own heads, to chuck our egos and our opinions and just get out there and earn our paychecks. “We’re here to play hockey,” he growls. “Stop dicking around and fuckin’ get out there and play some motherfuckin’ hockey.”

At the buzzer, we head back out, but the nonsense continues. LA scores twice, and a sharp check against the glass causes a fight between Tyler and one of the LA forwards. At the end of the third, down 0-2, I’m fairly certain this is the worst game we’ve ever played.

In the final period, our full starting lineup is out on the ice.

The crowd cheers for us and the energy of it is like the sun to Superman.

I tap my stick on the ice and rock side to side as we wait for the start of the period.

Play is fast and furious, our defenders in the same head space I’m in, seemingly.

We get our passing under control. Our pace is better.

And when Evan wings me the puck, I get up on the goal, only to sneak it around the backside, slipping it into the net with a confused goalie, wondering where the hell I just came from.

The crowd goes nuts, my big mug showing up on the jumbotron, along with a replay. I hop over the sideboard as one of the second stringers come in for me. Coach gives me a fist bump as I pull off my gloves to grab a drink.

Things look so much stronger, starting with the fact that Evan gets about three good shots on goal.

They all go wide, but it’s a far cry better to have their goalie on guard than ours.

Finally, with about three minutes to go, Boris hit a shot so hard that the goalie literally ducks to save himself from a certain death in between the posts.

It goes straight into the net as the horn sounds.

Coach says, “Christ, Boris nearly took that kid’s head off. ”

Tied up, the lines mix up again, and LA uses it to their advantage, putting us on the defensive.

Kolochev is a one-man band out there, holding off a hell of an effort by LA’s left wing forward.

He takes off, looking for Evan, but finding our French-Canadian wunderkind Giroux there instead.

He slows down and I can see the frown on his face when he realizes his best friend isn’t there, where he expects him.

Still, he gets the puck to the kid, who skates right past the LA defender, slipping in a tight shot that sets off the horn again.

A minute later, the buzzer goes off, and we’ve managed to win, but barely.

The crowd is happy, cheering, and loud. We should be celebrating, but honestly, I think we’re all in some mixed space of relief and anger.

I pull off my helmet and head down the tunnel without sparing a look back.

Chatter fills the locker room post-game. Some guys are like, Hey, it’s a win, but I’m not happy with it. It took us two full periods to get our shit together. We easily could’ve lost. I don’t participate in the talk. I just shower, dress, and take off, walking toward home.

I get a text from Reagan as I’m walking.

Reagan: Saw part of the game. It was on the bar tv

Mikhail: It was a stupid game

Reagan: Why? You won, right?

Mikhail: Sometimes a win just isn’t enough

Reagan: Well, at least ur not working a roulette table w/ a guy whose laugh is so sharp it can break glass the warmth of her small, delicate hand clasped in my much bigger one feels right, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for us to be holding hands while we just walk along the boulevard together toward home.

“I have to admit, I know next to nothing about hockey, Mikhail. Or any sports, to be honest. So, even though I enjoyed watching you, I was clueless about a lot of it.” She sounds apologetic telling me this, but she doesn’t need to feel that way from my perspective.

“It’s okay. I appreciate being able to not think hockey sometimes.”

“Still, I feel like I should be watching your games or something. I want to learn and understand the rules better.”

The thought of Reagan wanting to watch me play thrills me in a way I haven’t felt before with anyone that I can recall.

“Any time. I can get you in if you’re off when we have a home game.

I’ll set you up at Will Call with standing home game tickets for Reagan Marlowe.

Just give them your name at the window and you’re good to go. ”

She smiles up at me and mouths the words, “thank you, friend.”

My gorgeous friend, you’re so fucking welcome.

She is freaking gorgeous right now, smiling a true smile for once, looking happy and relaxed. If this is something I can help make happen for her, then I’m going to do it every chance I get and be damn proud of myself for it.

When we get to the building and step into the elevator, Reagan asks, “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

Fuck. Yes.

Although the “or something” probably more than the movie.

My answer to her question is the same for both.

“Your place or mine?”