Page 32

Harrison

T he atmosphere outside the arena is electric. Fans are out there before most of the players arrive, crowding in the courtyard and watching the pre-game screen, cheering each time they see one of the replays from the other games of the series.

Music blares from the massive speakers outside, and several grills are running, cooking up camp coffee, eggs, and bacon for the early-rising fans.

In fact, the entire city is thrumming with the excitement of this game.

Even people who are not hockey fans are dialed into the day, knowing what it will mean for the city of Baltimore if we win tonight.

It’s been a tough series already with the San Jose Sharks—a team that nobody expected to make it this far, and who came barreling out of the Pacific Division, racking up a bunch of points in the second half of the season that got them the wild card in the Western Conference.

And now, here we are, going up against a team that’s never taken home the cup. It only makes them hungrier, makes them play harder. We’ve seen a fight nearly every game this series, with our enforcers getting back to an old hockey mindset, physicality going through the roof.

“As long as you’re not the one fighting,” Lovie said, when I commented about it over dinner last night, musing about how old school the whole thing felt. “I don’t really care. You’ll have to be a good role model for our child, after all.”

I’d grinned at her, “I’ll be nothing but the best role model for our little one.”

After dinner, we went over strategy again, and she complained, again, about doing unpaid labor for the Blue Crabs. Then I submitted payment for that work by giving her a foot rub, which turned into a calf rub, which turned into me dragging her to the end of the bed and spreading her legs.

“I never thought I’d have more sex while I was pregnant,” she’d laughed, while I was cleaning her up with a warm washcloth.

“Think of it as a continuous scheduled increase,” I’d murmured, kissing the insides of her thighs. “By the time you’re fifty, we’ll have to have sex twice a day, every day.”

Lovie laughed, and when I gave in and buried my face between her legs, she tangled her hand in my hair, moaning my name and laying her other hand flat on her belly.

“Morning, coach,” Deacon says now, drawing me out of my thoughts with his greeting. He’s dressed in his finest coaching get-up, just like me, and he falls into step next to me, looking a little nervous. “Big day.”

“Morning,” I say, glancing at him, remembering that this is his first time coaching during the Stanley Cup finals. And this is his first final game.

Up to this point, the Sharks and Blue Crabs have been trading games back and forth. We took home the first win, the Sharks took the second. Then we won the third, the sharks the fourth. All the way to fifth and sixth games, which had us tied three and three for wins.

The first two games had us here in Baltimore, then the next two were in San Jose. We came home for the fifth game, and flew right back to California for the sixth.

Which puts us at home now, for the last game in the series.

No more chances to make it up. Tonight decides everything, which explains why the arena is practically shaking with nerves, why the Baltimore fans outside are already pregaming, wanting to be ready for the eventual celebration or disappointment.

The league, and the Blue Crabs admin, are eating it up. In terms of revenue, it’s the best possible scenario. Drawing out the finals, selling more and more tickets. I even saw an article yesterday that said seafood restaurants are running with the rivalry, selling seafood platters for the big game.

Apparently, a restaurant in San Jose is selling Baltimore Blue Crab Chowder as a promo, dyed blue and everything.

To Deacon, I say, “How is Telley’s wrist?”

“According to the trainer, it’s doing okay. We can expect him to start today.”

“Thank God—has that gotten out to the press yet?”

“Didn’t want to say anything until we ran it by you.”

“Thanks. Let’s wait a bit longer before letting them know.”

“Sounds good.”

“Morning, gentlemen,” Samir says, joining us as he comes in from his car, jingling his keys lightly at his hip. “You guys see the crowd out there? Going to be gnarly tonight in the city, win or lose.”

We fill him in on the Telley news, and I notice that Samir is a bit more calm than Deacon. Likely because he’s coached through the finals before, been this far.

However, as far as I know, Samir never got to win the series while coaching. Hopefully tonight will be a first for him, too.

We walk together until we find Ruby, and the four of us move to the meeting room together, where the guys are already waiting for us. Some of them—the older guys, veterans, are leaning back, relaxing. Kilgore looks like he might fall asleep.

But the younger guys, a lot of them going through the first final Stanley Cup game of their careers—are fidgeting, wide-eyed and nervous. I can only hope that they were able to get even a little bit of sleep the night before.

I know from experience—your first Stanley Cup series can be a pain in the ass. With how important sleep is to good performance, the anxiety sure will keep you up through the night. Stress and nerves will make your body feel completely fried.

The meeting goes quickly. We run through some of the game footage from other games, and I throw Lovie’s suggestions for each player up on the screen.

After the meeting, Deacon, Samir, Ruby and I head to the cafeteria, where we hang out, eat breakfast, and chat. Ten minutes after we sit down, I get a text and pull my phone from my pocket.

Lovie: Photo attachment .

It’s a selfie of Chrys, Lovie, and their dad at the spot I recommended for lunch. Harry’s Hoagies. Pretty close to where Lovie and I went to the Christmas Market together.

Right after the picture comes a text from Lovie.

Lovie: Chrys says Lester’s Lobster Rolls are better than these.

Lovie: Added to the group chat .

Chrys: You’re gonna have to try them when you come to Portland, Harry.

Chrys: Added to the group chat.

Mack: Are we planning a trip to Portland?

“I’d ask you who you’re smiling about,” Deacon says, frowning as he glances at me, “but I’m afraid it’ll set you off into Lovie-dovey mode again.”

“You never used to let him talk to you like that,” Ruby says, pointing with her scrambled-egg-laden fork. “Ever since you got with her, you’ve gone soft, Clark.”

“Scoot together,” I say, instead of answering either of them, and I force my assistant coaches to take a picture together with me, right there in the middle of the cafeteria.

Ruby holds up her eggs. Deacon frowns, and Samir smiles.

After taking it, I check to make sure I don’t look weird, then send it back to the group chat.

Harrison: Photo attachment.

Harrison: Keep talking, and I’ll bring you all to the arena and put you to work.

Chrys : You keep talking, and I’ll make sure Lovie has a boy.

Lovie: Been there, done that.

Mack: I’d take a job there. Heard it's a great gig.

After the round of texting, the coaches and I head out to the rink for the warm-up skate with the guys.

Some of the Sharks are out there, too, getting some time in on their skates.

Some of the VIP fans are filtering in–celebrities, moving into the boxes up top.

A few come down for an autograph before the game.

About an hour later, while the guys are resting, napping, or trying not to throw up from the nerves, the arena finally starts to fill up, fans trickling in, the buzz of excitement getting louder and louder.

Music comes over the speakers, the typical game-day fare, and it hits me that this is really happening.

I’ve played in this game before and won. Coached this game once and failed terribly.

And now, despite everything, we’re back here again, just one year later. A different opponent, but the same deal.

Put the puck in the net more than the other team. Don’t lose our cool.

I’m just making my way back down to the player’s bench when a voice rings out across the arena, over the buzz of the early fans.

“Coach, coach!” When I turn and see Constance Evans standing at the edge of the rink, I almost laugh out loud. Her blonde hair is perfectly curled, her white teeth flashing at me even from several feet away.

I haven’t seen her at any of the other games, and for good reason. She probably knew exactly what my response would be to seeing her. It’s just like her to wait until the final game of the Stanley Cup to sneak in here and try to get an interview with me, act like everything is fine.

Like she didn’t do her best to break Lovie and I apart, like she didn’t receive the photos and decide to attack us online. For a while, I gave Constance preference because she’s a local Baltimore reporter, but maybe that meant she got a little too into local reporting. Forgot about privacy.

True, she wasn’t the one who took the photos.

Jared suffocated under an avalanche of HR complaints when people in the company started coming forward against him.

Nobody could ever prove that he was the one who submitted the pictures of Lovie and me to the press, but the complaints were enough to get him fired, and hard enough on his reputation that each time I check on LinkedIn, he’s still #OPENTOWORK .

Even if Constance wasn’t the one who either followed us to the market, or just happened to be there to snap the photos, she still doesn’t deserve to be here tonight. And I also happen to know that there’s no way in hell she was given a press pass to get in—PR wants her nowhere near us, not anymore.

When she catches my eye, she has the gall to wave in my direction, trying to get me to come over to her. I raise an eyebrow and turn away, shaking my head as I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text.