Page 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Cam

Every minute I’m not on the ice, I’m obsessing over Christina’s declaration at our last practice session or the dysfunctional relationship I have with the second line.

On the surface, everything is fine.

I may text Chris a little less or take a little longer to respond to her texts, but I don’t go dark on her. This isn’t her fault. She’s right, we’d only ever discussed this as a fling.

It’s not her fault that simply snogging with her is better than sex with anyone else, or that her dancer’s body can turn me on no matter what she’s doing, to say nothing of her analytical brain.

I should be relieved. This should make it easier to walk away, which I need to do for my career. The last thing I want is for anyone to say my next contract wasn’t based on merit. And I can only imagine the complications in a trade to another team with an attractive woman as part of the ownership or management team. I can almost write the additional clause in my contract.

Like with Christina, Petrovsky and his brethren still call to me when play requires it. But there’s no chirping, no friendly locker room chat. We only end up eating together when Jack or du Près or Buzz invites both them and me. I’ve kept my own counsel since that practice, but they haven’t forgotten or forgiven, which doesn’t bode well for our cohesiveness as a team.

The jersey and kids debacle precluded an opportunity to talk out my on-ice woes with Christina. I’d broken the owner/player wall a couple times about small stuff and she’d been a good sounding board, so I would have liked to get her thoughts on this issue with Petrovsky. Instead, I’m strung tight, wondering if I’ll fit in with the team, if the coaches will notice something is amiss, or if any of it will affect my play.

And it may have. We’ve struggled on this road trip so far. Enough that I’m sweating my starting position.

I swear Pittsburgh fans won the first away game as much as the team itself did. Although the Pioneers were on fire that night. The puck seemed to move faster than ever. The team constantly zigzagged it across the ice. Twice that zigzagging got past our D-men and me. I was so frustrated by the third period I wanted to rip the net apart, but the key to not allowing any more goals is to find one’s Zen. So, for the most part, I did.

Our team became desperate to score and kept taking wild shots and creating more turnovers. I bit my tongue, but by the second intermission, I couldn’t stop myself. If they’re going to spend this much time at my end of the ice, they were going to get my opinion. “Keep that fucking puck out of my goddamn zone!”

“We’re not crocheting out here, asshole!” Petrovsky muttered as he swept by me.

That exchange plus the loss had my stomach in knots, which was only exacerbated when Coach announced Murphy would have the net tonight. I couldn’t help but wonder if one of the players talked to Coach about the friction between the second line and me.

Coach said it was that he didn’t want me playing three in a row on the road. He wanted me rested for tomorrow’s game in Detroit, against one of the fiercest teams in the league, the Michigan Cougars, on their home ice. I tried to take his statements at face value. Murphy does need ice time, and an easier opponent is the best opportunity for him to continue to grow in the NHL.

So here I sit on the bench. The Ohio Hammerheads’ last two seasons were lackluster. If we could get our act together, they are eminently beatable. And would bolster our confidence going into the Michigan game.

None of us can get out of our heads, however. Too many passes are too hard, too fast, misplaced, or just plain missed. The stress of witnessing the mess and seeing Dan allow four goals to our one is as bad as if I had played and done the same.

The locker room is quiet. A few players are talking quietly about the game here and there, but most of us are thinking about errors made on the ice, or the future of the team, or both.

Coach comes in. We turn to face him, and he stands tall, taking time to look each of us in the eyes before saying, “The answer is no. To those of you wondering if you made a mistake coming to this team, starting from scratch. The answer is no. To those fuckers blaming others for tonight’s loss. That answer is also no. There isn’t a single Tornado out there who didn’t make some shitty mistakes. Notice I say mistakes, plural. I see that you’re all pretty introspective—for a bunch of fucking meatheads who have had too many pucks to the head.” A few guys manage to chuckle, despite the doldrums we’re all in. “That’s good. Stick with that. Just make sure you’re figuring out what you can do better. Tomorrow, we’re going to examine the game tape and talk about it. Tonight, just think about it.”

Heads are nodding, including mine.

“Then? After tomorrow?” he says. “We’re going to take what we’ve learned and put it into practice and come back stronger than ever against those Cougars. I don’t care how many Stanley Cups they have. They’ve also been around nearly a century.” He raises his voice to a growl to finish, “We don’t need that long to get to a Cup, do we?”

The guys perk up, saying, “No.”

“I didn’t hear you!”

We all stand and shout, “No!”

Re-energized, I head for the shower.

Saint swings into step with me. “Do you know what you did wrong?”

“I didn’t play.”

“So?”

“Okay, then, before tonight? I think so. I let myself get distracted.”

“It’s more than that, Prancer. Think beyond the ice.” With that, he peels off to talk to another player coming our way, taking his role of team captain seriously.

Ugh, now I’m confused and depressed again.

I’ve hung out with every member of the team. Even before some guys were sent to our AHL affiliate, I was an equal opportunity socializer. Sure Jack and I have grown close, despite our yin and yang personalities. Between him being one of my primary go-tos on the ice and living together, it was inevitable. But we both agreed that team bonding was essential, which was why we’ve had a couple more poolside cookouts at our little rental house.

On the ice, I ruffled a few feathers, but that’s my job as goalie. I’ve got the best seat in the house—I’d argue better even than the coaches’—to see our strengths and weaknesses.

Just because I’ve played less than a dozen games at this level doesn’t mean I don’t know my shit.

Regardless, their snapbacks made it clear my voice wasn’t welcome, and I’ve kept my mouth shut since then. So how did my more recent off-ice behavior have anything to do with our loss tonight?

* * * *

Hours of game tape later and a short flight to Detroit, we’re on the ice again. My fear of the Cougars’ longstanding reign as one of the best teams in the league wars with cautious hope as we bolster each other’s courage in our brief morning skate. But those fears are still echoed in my teammates’ faces.

To go home with three back-to-back losses always makes players nervous about the next road trip, which will in turn affect team performance. We could really use a win to reset our outlook.

It’s not fatalism to say it seems unlikely, but that doesn’t mean we can’t play a fantastic game of hockey.

Saint echoes my thoughts. “Let’s shake off the last few days and just play great hockey like we know we can.”

Everyone cheers and we’re out on the ice for warmups. The NHL ice is always miked during warmups so we keep quiet in case our nerves come out on national TV.

Christina texted that she’d be watching tonight and “around” tomorrow night if I wanted to swing by when we land. I grin in anticipation wondering if she can see my face. I laugh at myself. I’m sure she has better things to do than watch hockey warmups a half hour before the puck drops.

Back in the locker room, Coach gives us another pep talk. I skate to my post and get into the zone chocking the ice and stretching my legs. My focus drills into the three-inch rubber disk. Let’s do this.

Sixty game minutes later, we’ve lost. Michigan fans are beasts, yelling and trying to break our concentration, not allowing us to communicate much during play. More than that, though, the Cougars outplayed us. The biggest advantage of an older team—both members and team history—is the cohesiveness that we’re still chasing.

On a positive note, we had way less nerves and tallied one goal, celebrating like we’d just won the Cup for a minute before the ref whistle blew for a faceoff.

I let in two goals. But that was out of what seemed like a hundred shots on goal. The Cougars are freaking fast, their sticks almost blurred in slapshots and passes. Most of their team has played together for the last several years, including their entire first line. They can read each other’s slightest body language. Our team is still learning that, on and off the ice.

Coach says as much after the game, insisting that we played strong and we should be proud, loss aside. Saint adds, “We did what we set out to do. We played great hockey. We’ll get them next time on our ice.”

We change and head back to the hotel in our suits, changing again to hang in the hotel lounge to wind down after the game. Almost a week of being on the road has mellowed some of the players, even the player players. However, some are undeterred. Jack and a few others stand at the bar instead of sitting with us, emanating puck bunny magnetic waves.

Buzz catches my eye and does a chin lift toward them. “Aren’t they around your age?”

I look over at Jack’s entourage. There are a couple twenty-year-olds from Canada that came up from the junior leagues. I frown. They can’t drink legally in the US, and there’s a bigger gap in our ages than there is between Buzz and me. Jack and Buzz are the same age, only two years ahead of me. I answer, “No more so than you.”

“Fair. Sometimes guys like them make me feel ancient.”

Saint joins us, grumbling with a frown, “Who’s ancient?”

“Well, now that you remind us…,” Buzz plays along as though we’ve been talking about our captain.

“You know, I looked it up.” My words come slowly. I don’t want to piss anyone off, but I’m feeling a little defensive after his comments the other night. “This is a young team. The average age of our team is twenty-six, versus closer to twenty-eight. Our first line is younger. And the average age of team captains in the NHL is thirty-one.”

“Yeah.” Saint nods. “Coach said Mr. Donovan’s vision was to aim young and have the team grow together, so we get stronger every year.”

“Then what’s the issue with me pointing out things that I see can be improved, when I’m uniquely situated to do just that?”

“Ah,” Saint says with a sigh, sitting back. “That’s where you were going. You still haven’t figured it out.”

“I want this team to be the best it can be. Scratch that, the best, period. And the way I learned it, part of a goalie’s training is to help fill holes when he sees them.”

Saint sips his beer and nods. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, young Prancer.”

I nearly snarl at him. “I thought we established that I’m not all that young, particularly on this team.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. Here’s the thing.” He turns and nods at du Près, asking me, “What do you know of him, beyond the profile on the team’s website?”

“Uh…he only drinks Canadian whisky, preferably Found North. His family is coming in for the next game. He left a girlfriend in Florida.”

“Right. How about Scott?”

“He’s a hound dog, he was happy to come here because he likes warm weather almost as much as he likes being on the ice, and um…he has an older sister who’s an attorney.”

He nods. “What about me?”

“You married your college sweetheart several years ago, you hate corn, and like me, you only have one drink a night during the season.”

He turns to Buzz. “You’ve hung out with Prancer quite a bit. What do you know about him?”

I retract my head at his question, not expecting that turn. I thought he was quizzing me on bonding with the team and that I’d been doing well.

“He’s from Indiana. He’s as stretchy as Gumby and uses ballroom dancing and yoga to maintain that. And he eats super healthy.” Buzz shrugs, not able to think of anything else.

“No one on the team knows anything about your family, your dating history, or even where you last went on vacation. You hold yourself apart. If you’re committed to this team, then treat us like it. Hockey teams are families. We don’t always get along with each other, but we always have each other’s back, and we trust each other. Part of trusting is opening yourself up. But you haven’t done that, so you haven’t earned the right to criticize, even in private. Besides which, sometimes it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. Be careful with new relationships, as you would with a girl. Or guy. See, I don’t know if you’re gay or straight,” he says with a smile.

“Straight as a ruler, but totally cool with whatever. I’ve had teammates who were gay. As for the rest”—I sigh. It’s hard to trust others, but regardless, he’s right. I have to earn their trust, even if it means being vulnerable. “I’ll work on it. Trust is a slow thing for me on the personal side. But I trust everyone here the second skates get laced up.”

“It has to go beyond that.”

“I’ll try.” The idea of opening myself up to more rejection or scorn is exhausting, particularly after this grueling road trip. I stand. “Thank you, Cap. I hear you. I’m tired, though, so I’d prefer to not boil this particular ocean tonight. I’m gonna head up.”

He nods and takes his last sip of beer. “I’m right behind you.”

I wave to Jack on my way by and pull out my phone as I stride to the elevators.

You up?