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9

LIAM

Tonight we’re on home ice at the Palace, matched up against the Carolina Storm.

Our forward and Duffton from the opposing team start strong, fast-paced with the puck coasting across the ice with perfect passes and assists. He scores a greasy goal on Robo in the office for Beau during the first period. Into the second, the Storm lags and loses steam, relying on brute force rather than strategy and skill.

I’m big and fast but my secret weapon is learning the strengths and weaknesses of all the other players on my team to compensate and on the others to dominate. Once you know where the kinks in the chain are, it’s easy to slide in and strengthen them or break them.

Eight minutes on the clock, Jack gets us our first goal against his old team. Another ten pass and it looks like Cole from Carolina is going to score, but Beau blocks it with a great butterfly save. We take possession and I keep the Storm running scared, giving Hayden a chance to score, gaining us a one-point lead.

Predictably, the fans go wild and then get just as upset when the Storm snag another goal on Robo at the top of the third. They chant “Beast” and wear Beast costume accessories like wigs and horns and head masks or face paint along with their Knights jerseys.

I wish they wouldn’t.

Time to turn up the volume. Jack takes charge, not letting the puck out of his sight until Mikey is open for an assist.

Ramirez from the Storm tries to block me from getting into position, but I’m unstoppable and pull away to keep the opposition’s forwards from pickpocketing.

We get another goal, taking the lead once more until the clock runs out, the buzzer sounds, and the Knights win the day.

As we take a victory lap, I notice on the jumbo screens overhead, the words “#1 Fan Dolly the Knights” scroll by.

The witch bride’s comment from this morning comes to mind, but it must be a coincidence. Then again, I did run into her in the hallway earlier. Hopefully, the saying that things happen in threes isn’t true, because I definitely don’t want a triple play with that crazy woman.

I’m peopled out.

For years, I longed to be captain and promised myself if I ever got the role, I’d continue to be the first to arrive and the last to leave. However, I have to dash to deal with Mrs. Kirby and then with the kid.

Pierre whacks me with a towel. “Where are you in a rush to? Hot date?” He’s also one of our defensemen and Badaszek’s son-in-law. How the guy dubbed The Frenchman—and not because he’s from the country—managed to date, no less marry the coach’s daughter, and make it out alive is something we’re all still trying to figure out.

Hayden wolf whistles. “Liam, on a date? That’ll be the day.”

I toss them a dirty look and shake my head. The game has gone way late. Mrs. Kirby is going to sic her mini Maltese on me.

Most people work forty-hour weeks, but this gig is all day and well into the night. On the flip side, we get offseason downtime. Unless you’re me. I train year-round.

“Nice blocking, Cap,” says Redd, right winger and former captain.

I cock my head and say, “Listen, I didn’t ask for this.”

He claps a meaty hand on my back. “No, but you’re the best man for the job. I was glad to pass the torch. Family life is keeping me loaded with commitments. A guy only has so much bandwidth.”

Nerves ball up in my stomach. “You don’t say.”

“Just wait. Someday you’ll have a family and understand. Enjoy being single now. But the fun really starts when you meet someone special, settle down, and start creating a team of your own.” He winks.

I vaguely recall him not having a kid one day and then being a dad the next. Er, maybe stepdad? Could be that he got custody of his sister. I know these guys nearly as well as I know my own brother. Or I thought I did. Maybe not.

“Happens every time. You sign with the Knights, you’re also committing to marriage,” Pierre adds.

Bouchelle says, “I’m the new guy, but Badaszek has a knack for playing matchmaker.”

“I what?” comes a loud, booming voice from the hall.

We all shuffle around as if we’re teens caught with our hands in the cookie jar.

Commencing the debrief, Coach says, “The Carolina Storm have had an inconsistent few months.”

“Could be because we poached their MVP,” quips Grady, another defenseman.

I have no doubt Badaszek heard him but he ignores the comment. “Sometimes they come in and crush it and others it’s a gimme game without much effort on our part. Tonight, they were firing on all cylinders?—”

My thoughts drift to how I am not and that largely has to do with my living situation. The kid was the happiest I’d seen him after we ran into the wedding witch at the bakery. But as the day wore on, he fell into sullen silence, not that he ever makes much more than a peep—seems Pam ascribed to a “Children should be seen and not heard” policy. Not going to lie, I love to hear my nieces and nephews laughing.

The coach praises our stick handling and formation when running offense. He makes a few suggestions for improvements to limit opportunities for the opposition to score. Possibly for the first time in my career, I’m not focused. I glean that at the next few practices, we’ll be drilling back-checking, interceptions, and interrupting plays.

“Oh, and Captain,” he calls.

I surface from my thoughts and ask, “Yeah? I mean, yes, sir?”

His forehead furrows for a moment and then he says, “Good goon work.”

The guys chuckle. It’s well known that although my hockey skills have improved over the years, I’m most known for my ability to—how do I put this nicely, in a way that the witch bride wouldn’t find rude?—intimidate the other team.

Realizing that was my cue from Badaszek to give my first “Recaptain” what we call the post-game recap talk by the team captain. Sometimes it’s meant to review aspects the coach didn’t discuss, offer a pep talk, show tough love, or hand out kudos like candy.

Seated on the bench, elbows on my knees, and shoulders bunched up toward my ears, I clap my hands together as if that’ll snap me to attention. It’s time for me to say a few words—not my strong suit.

I clear my throat. “Ambition isn’t how a team wins. It isn’t an action or path to a trophy. It’s not enough to want to win. Everyone wants to score. Get to the Finals. To win the cup. Differentiating ourselves isn’t about reinventing the wheel. It isn’t even about working harder.”

“What’s the secret sauce?” Pierre asks.

Grimaldi says, “As if Ellis would tell.”

Grady says, “His last name is on the Stanley three times. He knows something about winning.”

“My father and brother both have their names on it and I do once, but it’s not because of any one thing I did or because I have a secret. There is no secret.” The words are harsh but true and I aim them directly at Grimaldi.

A round of groans issues from the group and ripples through me. If I were in their seats, I’d groan too. Although I’m known for being grumpy, they deserve better.

“Of course he’d say that,” Grimaldi pipes in.

Resolve building, I channel my father and his many pep talks and say, “How we rise to the top is by giving our all at each practice, each game. When you want to stay out, go home and sleep. When you’re tempted to have another hot dog, have a steak instead.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Redd says with a nod of approval.

“So it’s about discipline?” someone says from the back of the locker room.

“And grit, fortitude … and playing like a team and not a one-man clown show.” Once again, I direct this at Grimaldi.

I leave off the part about offensive and defensive IQ because this doesn’t need to turn into a TED Talk. There will be time for that later. We’re all beat and I’ve nearly reached the end of my word count limit for tonight.

“Let’s go,” I say, concluding.

“ Let’s go like you’re hyping us up or let’s go like we’re done here and it’s time to leave?” asks Pierre, the smart aleck.

I level him with a death stare. The guys don’t respect me as captain yet. Not that I blame them. I don’t suppose Badaszek is going to reveal this is a joke or change his mind.

I have to prove myself and I will. I always do.

As I exit, Vohn, the assistant coach pulls me aside. “Well done, but next time try not to look like you’re going to murder the rest of the team if they don’t listen to you.”

“Says the guy who never smiles,” Pierre says, having overheard.

Beau, loading up his bag, grunts.

The three of us aren’t much for sparkle hands and team spirit cheering circles. However, the witch bride with her wide smile could be part of a cheerleading squad with her unwavering grin and enthusiasm. Just thinking about it makes me tired … and it’s very unlikely that I’ll even be able to sleep in my own bed.

Also, why does the woman from the bakery keep popping into my head?

When I get outside, I try to take a deep breath of fresh air, but the winter chill is like icicles in my lungs.

I toss my gear into the back of my truck when another image from this morning surfaces in my mind. I have what feels like mental vertigo. Like I didn’t realize I was standing on the edge of a cliff and tip over the side. My thoughts are in freefall.

The woman at the bakery was doing sign language to the kid. He was signing back.

Could he not be able to speak or hear?

My thoughts bob and weave. The possibility that my son can’t hear makes me feel like I have a bison sitting on my windpipe. If I overlooked this very important fact, I’m not fit to be a father. Then again, his mother could’ve had the decency to mention it in her scrawled note before she left him in the lobby of the Old Mill, where I now live.

My lawyer is still trying to obtain his medical records and her whereabouts, among other things.

Sitting in my parked vehicle, my fist pounds the steering wheel. My muscles seize as I remind myself to take a steadying breath. There’s no sense in breaking something, least of all my hand. Kind of need it if I’m going to provide for the kid.

I don’t know how to do this. How to be a father. How to move past denial that he is my son.

Instead, I drive.

Elizabeth, Mrs. Kirby’s Maltese, yaps when I knock lightly on the door. The older woman looks peeved. “You’re ruining her beauty sleep. You do realize she’s a candidate for the dog show this November.”

“I had no idea.” I don’t care that I sound snarky as I retrieve the kid from where he’s curled up on an upholstered chair.

He hardly rustles. Is that because he doesn’t hear the dog barking or us talking? I’m about to ask her if the kid talks while she’s watching him, but she’s soothing Elizabeth.

“I suggest you find that child a mother,” Mrs. Kirby says as I exit.

“Yeah. Thanks. Great advice.”

Nothing about this situation is sustainable. I’m going to have to find a nanny or childcare or something.

Back at the loft, after I tuck the kid in, I down a liter of water. I’d ignored my texts all day and check them now, reading several from family and friends, including some on the siblings thread, congratulating us on the win—though Hendrix tells me to tighten up my offside awareness.

I have other issues to focus on, namely that I haven’t yet told my family about the new addition to my life.

There’s no world in which I should be trusted with taking care of anyone, no less an ankle-biter, but I don’t know what else to do. It’s almost been a month and now it’s gotten to the point where I don’t have a good answer when they inevitably ask why I didn’t tell them that they’re grandparents. Mom and Dad are the last people on the planet I want to upset—or to remind that I’m the loser son, even though, on paper, I appear to be a hands-down winner.

Ingrid will punish me psychologically and Hendrix will take it out on me next time we’re on the ice. It’s a tight spot all around and I’m not used to doing anything other than powering through, steamrolling on a pair of blades if I have to.

Before I plug in my phone to charge, I notice a red dot indicating a message for me waiting on the official Knights team app. I slouch against the counter, feeling unusually tired. I don’t know why Badaszek thought I’d be cut out for captain. Then again, it’s something I’ve always wanted and have worked hard for.

The waiting message is from the coach’s secretary and daughter. I skim it, then reread it.

Cara Arsenault: Once again, on behalf of the Knights Organization, congratulations on being named Team Captain. This demonstrates your motivation, commitment, integrity, and positivity. As such, we’re delighted to inform you that we’ve hired an assistant to help you manage your personal and professional tasks. Think of it as a perk that comes with your additional responsibilities. Jessica Fuller is a consummate managerial maven, self-motivated, and mega-cheerful person.

The sarcasm isn’t lost on me. I’ve had about enough for one day. Plus, I don’t need help. My comment this morning about not needing coffee echoes in my mind.

I rub my eyes, rereading the message. At this rate, I’ll have to drink espresso just to remain upright.

Me: No.

Cara Arsenault: Too late.

Does she mean it’s too late to reply or this assistant nonsense is already in motion? Not only do I not need help, I don’t want it. Not from Cara’s well-intentioned placement of a lethally cheerful person in my life. Not from anyone.

Tomorrow, I’ll decline the offer and turn the assistant away if I have to. Right now, it’s time for me to sack out on the floor and hopefully dream about my life when I slept in a bed like an adult and my sole focus was hockey.