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Chapter Twenty-Eight

Christina

I heat leftover Thai food and get settled for the warmups. Now that I’ve seen them up close from Cam’s seats, pre-game stretching is my new favorite thing. And they’re miked for TV now, so even though they’re in Seattle, I get to hear the chirping between our team and with the opposition.

The home team players are in pigeon poses and squats on their half of the ice, while the Tornadoes circle and take practice shots on the open goal. The cameras pan to where the goalies go through their extreme side lunges and hump the ice. Cam is way flatter to the ice than the other netminder. The Seattle goalie gets up and skates to the boards and grabs a water bottle. He guzzles it like he’s already worn out. Hopefully, that means a good game for us, even in Seattle’s house.

The camera closes in on Cam as he does a quick scan of the crowd. He’s already focused. I can almost see the game tape of the other team running through his mind. He’d told me about getting into it with his teammates early in the season when he sided with the coaches on their criticism of some plays. Saint had given him some pretty solid advice. As far as I can tell, he’s kept quiet since then, trying to follow that guidance and build trust.

When Greg and I watched a game together, he mentioned that Coach Steele was impressed with Cam’s remarks after the team reviewed the opponents’ game tape. Saint’s comments made sense, though. No one likes criticism, and his teammates need to understand he’s trying to build them up, not tear them down.

The Tornadoes struggle in the first period, missing a couple easy shots. Cam manages to block every puck aimed at him, but when the cameras give a quick glimpse of the team on their way into the locker room, his face is tight. I recognize that look. Something is up that he believes is fixable.

I take a bite of panang curry chicken but it’s cold. While I reheat my food, I decide I need wine for this game and open a malbec. On my way back from the microwave, the game comes back on the TV.

Victor Gauthier and Milo Petrvosky are headed to Cam in goal. Petrovsky struggled in the first period. The TV announcers drone on wondering what they’re talking about, but I have a good guess.

Cam listens to Gauthier, then looks at Petrovsky. The second line winger nods and Cam’s shoulders drop. Seems like they can live with criticism if it gets them wins. Cam then checks the camera and turns a few degrees away from it to say something to the other two. Damn, for an NHL rookie, he has a presence about him already.

Saylet only put him in the press room that one time after his shutout, and he told me after he’d been terrified, but he managed a few terse answers and otherwise stayed as quiet as the questions allowed, deferring to her guidance. On the ice, though, he’s at home, a team leader. It’s a shame goalies can’t be captains, although he wouldn’t be as a rookie anyway. As Lauren would say, he has captain energy. Well, she’d say big dick energy, but whatever. I’m borrowing it.

The second period starts with the second line on ice. Petrovsky must have said something to Coach so he could apply Cam’s advice.

I eat two more bites of my spicy chicken curry but my stomach’s in knots. It always is for our team. I was never this interested in Greg’s games. Perhaps because they weren’t at this level, and I didn’t have money invested in them. I try to picture my concern if I hadn’t spent the last two months dancing with the goalie. Nope, money wouldn’t matter. Cam is the reason for this stress, especially in his position. Goals are the measurement of a win or loss and goalies bear the burden of both sides of that coin.

We get a shot on goal in the first two minutes, which is unusual against the Pikes, but it’s blocked. Their goalie has five years in the NHL and his stats are better than Cam’s. The teams race up and down the ice, jockeying for possession of the puck, with both defenses so fierce, neither gets a shot on goal.

Saint gets a penalty for interference, so dammit, they’re on a penalty kill. I’m going to need more wine for this.

Two of their players break away from ours and race along the boards. I always expect that to split the goalie’s focus, but Cam always says the puck is the only focus. The players’ movements are peripheral so he can anticipate where it will go next.

The Pike left wing looks to his teammate. With our players closing in behind them, he twists his body a few inches as though to pass and—

Wham! His shot is aimed at Cam’s right elbow. Cam blocks the puck, but it bounces back into play. Our team is already there and Jack flicks it around behind the net to where Kyle Scott is waiting to pass it forward.

The second period ends five minutes later with the score still 0-0 and I wilt back against the couch cushions. I get up and go to the kitchen to pour another glass of wine. Halfway back to the couch I turn around and grab the bottle, bringing it with me.

The third period starts with players on both sides fired up. Each team manages a goal within the first few minutes, keeping the game tied and pissing Cam off.

The clock counts down the last five minutes of the game with the score still 1-1. I reach for more wine but the bottle is empty. I’ll regret that tomorrow, but I blink the thought away to avoid missing a second of play.

There is a tussle over the puck right in front of Cam, and a Pike drives his shoulder into Cam, whose face is dangerously close to that hit. I stand, waiting for the penalty whistle, but it doesn’t come.

Cam doesn’t let it bother him. His stick goes between the asshole’s legs and flicks the puck out to Scott, who wings it forward to Buzz. How Buzz knew to stay further away from the action, I don’t know. I guess Seattle had all their guys trying to press Cam to get another goal before the clock ran out, because Buzz almost strolls down with Jack at his shoulder protecting him. At the last second Buzz lifts his stick like he’s going to take a slap shot on goal, then dekes toward the boards, the goalie’s eyes following his stick for the second Jack needs.

The lamp lights! I’m standing, hands in the air like they kicked a field goal, yelling a long “ggooaall” like it was soccer. Wine trickles down my arm from the glass still in my hand as our guys play out the last twenty seconds of the game. The game clock hits zero and skate clad bodies flow over the boards celebrating victory. Cam, helmet shoved up on top of his head, skates over and offers one a hand, only to be yanked into a bear hug. I’m so happy for them I can’t stand it.

As I step out from between the couch and the coffee table, I stagger. Glancing back at the panang chicken, I see that I’ve only eaten a third. No wonder I was mixing my sports celebrations. I clean myself and my house, make a piece of toast in the vain hope of soaking up some of the wine with carbs, and vow not to call Cam or to answer if he calls. I don’t want to say something I shouldn’t as my tongue is always looser when I’ve had a few drinks.

Lying in bed, I can’t relax. If this is my level of excitement from watching (yeah, yeah, and the wine, stop harping, already), I can only imagine how hyped the guys are after a tight game. Wearing his jersey and knowing he’ll be back tomorrow night doesn’t help. I conjure his hockey stance without the clothes and pads. Mmm, that was his position for our barre sex.

I roll to my back, stripping off his jersey so I can pretend he’s here with me. Laying it flat between my legs, I bend my knees and stroke myself. I grab my phone to find the photo album I’ve saved of candid shots of him on the ice.