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Harrison

T he tough thing about being an NHL coach is that it doesn’t always give you time to make an emergency trip to Portland. The schedule doesn’t wait for you, and nobody in the league is going to postpone a game so you can make sure to catch the love of your life.

When I got home from seeing Brad at the bar, the first thing I did was pull out my laptop, comparing my schedule with the available flights to Maine. When I found at least twenty-four hours that I wouldn’t be needed, I booked the flight.

But that flight still isn’t until tomorrow, even after a whole week of home and away games, getting on plenty of flights that weren’t to Portland, Maine. And of course the place doesn’t even have an NHL team, so we couldn’t have been going there to play.

I just had to wait.

Now, I’m at the final game before I can leave, and trying to keep my mind on the hockey, instead of on the time and distance between me and her.

I don’t want to think about how long, exactly, it’s going to be before I can talk to her, make my case.

Tell her all the reasons why this thing will work, even though there are plenty of voices trying to tell us that it never will.

Around me, the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Ladies and gentleman, the Baltimore Blue Crabs and the Pittsburgh Penguins!”

I stand at the bench, clipboard under my arm, Samir and Deacon to my right, watching as the players warm up on either side of the rink. Music plays loudly through the arena, fans clap and stomp along to it, and my mind fights between two different focuses.

This game, which will bring us closer to the playoffs.

Lovie, and how I’ll be seeing her in just a few days.

That is, if she’ll agree to see me.

“Coach?” Samir asks, leaning down and catching my gaze. I startle, turning to him, and he clears his throat, gesturing to something on my clipboard, asking me a question.

I answer, and the team settles in for the opening face off. Like always, time seems to suspend itself in the seconds before the ref drops the puck, then, just like that, game is in play, sticks and pads clashing, the space filling with the sharp, frigid sound of skates on ice.

The Penguins control the face off, but we just as easily change the pace of the game, bringing it back around. The puck knocks back and forth over the red line a few times, and my grip on the clipboard tightens.

We worked on this in practice all this week—how Pittsburgh plays, and how to dissolve that pressure. I bite my tongue and wait for the guys to put our plans into play.

During a media timeout, I find myself glancing up, looking at the spot where Lovie used to sit. But it’s empty, like it has been during every home game since the day she left, so I turn back, taking a deep breath and watching the guys as they work to stay warm on the ice.

We play through a decent first period, with no score up on the board but the guys seeming to remember what we went over. To my relief, they resist the urge to play to the level of their opponents, and in the second period, we break loose, scoring twice in just five minutes of play.

“Yes.” I give the air a little punch, clapping at the second goal, and turn again to check the stands for her, even though I know she won’t be there. Instead, Maya Winthrop stares back at me from the stands, a strange expression on her face.

In the second period, the Penguins score on us, bringing the score up two-to-one. I pull aside the goalie at the next intermission, talk him through how the Penguins’ forward got in the last score.

“We talked about it,” Ruby says, clapping her hand down on the goalie’s pads. “He’ll feign to the winger every time, but he’ll always take the shot himself, the arrogant fucker.”

To the team, I emphasize, “Penguins love subbing an extra man when they’re down—when that happens, we turn it on, got it? Nothing more morale-killing than a score on an open goal.”

When the guys head back to the ice, we still have a few minutes before play resumes, and my mind wanders back to Lovie.

And, somehow, back to Eliza. To the fact that as a player, I’d never gotten distracted from the game. I made it a point to keep my personal life and professional life separate. I never asked her to come to the games. I thought it might get in my head, knowing she was there.

Now, knowing I’m going after Lovie, I’m able to think about her and coach at the same time. And she was here for some of the best coaching games of my career, sitting right there in the stands, watching me. Paying attention.

I can have both. I was always capable of having both, I just didn’t realize it until it was too late for Eliza and me. I’m not going to let it be too late for me and Lovie.

The Crabs take the ice again, and we trade the puck back and forth, taking a few good, hard shots at their goal that they keep out.

With just one minute left in the final period, while the Penguins are hammering us down on our end of the ice, I see their goalie skate for the bench. They’re bringing on an extra man, leaving their goal open in the hopes the extra pressure will help them tie it up.

“He’s off!” I holler, though I know my players can’t hear me. I can only hope they have the rink-presence to realize the change. They see the extra man come on, and make me proud, fighting for the puck every time, hauling ass after it when it skirts out by the red line.

Then, John Canton grabs it on a flying skate, getting it wide open on the other side of the rink and taking it into an empty goal.

“Yes!” I clap my hand against my board, smile splitting my face, and like I have no control over my body, I can’t stop myself from turning and looking at the spot where she should be.

Except, this time, she is there.

The smile falls right off my face. For a second, I think that I’ve finally snapped, that, among the screaming and cheering fans, I’m hallucinating the sight of Lovie there, in her Blue Crabs jersey—my jersey—staring down at me with a tentative smile on her face.

Her hand shakes as she raises it and pushes some of her hair behind her ear.

My legs move, carrying me over the bench and through the little gate leading into the player’s area.

Then I climb the steps, not feeling or thinking or hearing a thing as I go, my eyes locked on hers.

The fans around me go wild, reaching for me, smiling, some even asking me to sign something for them, but none of it distracts me.

I won’t be able to hear a thing until I know for sure that she’s really here.

“Harrison,” she says, when I’m an arm’s length away from her. My eyes slide to the side, and I see Maya Winthrop, smiling and shaking her head, taking a step away to give Lovie space.

“Lovie,” I say, stepping into her, lowering my mouth near her ear so she can hear me through the noise and the cheering. I realize the game is still going on down on the ice, but I don’t care. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” She pulls back and nods, eyes meeting mine.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It means more,” she says, and, to my shock, a tear rolls down her face. She doesn’t hurry to wipe it away or hide it, just tips her head up to me.

It’s an invitation.

And I’ll take that invitation any day of the week, every day for the rest of my life. The chance to kiss her, to take her in my arms, to hold her and have her. I’d tell her that if I thought she could hear me over the whistles and cheering around us.

When the kiss ends, she pulls back laughing, and I turn to see us blown up on the jumbotron.

The PR manager’s voice rings through my head again. “Don’t do anything with her in public until we get this thing figured out.”

Surely, this is going to cause a big problem for that department. But as much as the online spaces felt like torches and pitchforks, the energy around us right now is much more happy, buoyant—exactly the way it’s felt every time I’ve been with Lovie since the first time I met her.

“Harrison,” she says, and I realize there’s a tremor in her voice as she reaches down, picking something up from the bench. I stare at it, the tiny box, mind racing as I try to figure out what, exactly, it is. “This is for you,” she says, handing it to me.

When I open it, it’s a tiny replica of the jersey she’s wearing right now. That signature two-toned blue of the Blue Crabs, my number and name.

I look up at her, trying to puzzle it out. Her saying she wants to be with me? Doesn’t her being here do that enough?

Then, when her eyes find mine, it clicks.

Lovie is pregnant. With my baby.