Page 18 of Pucking Around

I tug out the top paper and scan it.Holy shit.It’s a blocked schedule going day-by-day for the next two months showing all kinds of events from a meet and greet at a hospital to something next week called Fin Fest. There’s hardly a day not accounted for, including some weekends.

“I’m attending all these events?” I say, glancing up at her over my list.

“Yeah, don’t you think it’ll be great?” she says with a smile. “We’ve got the coaches hitting the town too, the players, even staff. Like I said, it’s all hands on deck. I really hope you’re a team player because we mean to win this game.”

“Which game?” I say, returning the paper to my folder.

She finally glances up from her phone. “Thegame. The only one that matters.” She narrows her eyes at me, lips pursed. “Sports at this level is never just about the sport, Rachel. It’s about everything else. Our most important game this year won’t be played on the ice. It’s about winning the hearts and minds of the people of Jacksonville. We need to let the hockey world see that the Rays are here to play and we’re here to stay.”

8

If someone told me ten years ago that I would go from being the number three draft pick in the NHL to a glorified blade sharpener, I would have laughed in their face. Hockey is my life. It’s always been my life. Butplayingthe game, not sitting on the sidelines.

Growing up in Minnesota, I was skating almost as soon as I could walk. I skated my way through high school into a coveted spot as a starting forward for the University of Michigan. My nickname was The Lightning because I was so damn fast. I was the great hope for the Sanford family to make it to the NHL.

And I did…for seven minutes.

Seven minutes and thirteen seconds to be exact. That’s how long I was on the ice. One bad check into the boards, one brutally broken knee, one career ended before it even began.

Pittsburgh kept me on their injured list for over a year before it was clear my rehab was only going to restore so much function. I just had too many setbacks—unexpected inflammation, nasty infection, a third surgery. I’ve still got three screws in there holding it all together.

In my life before the injury, everything made sense. I knew exactly what I wanted. I had the drive and the natural talent. I hardly studied in school and still got good grades. If I wanted girls, all I had to do was curl my finger. Parties, drinking, friends—I had it all in the before.

But now I live in the after. The after is a place where I wake up every single day with my knee hurting. The after is a dark place where I’m in my head more than I’m out of it. The after is where the risk of spiraling is always just within reach. Within the span of two years, I went from starting in the NHL with a two-year, multi-million-dollar contract, to waiting tables at a sports bar in Duluth, Minnesota.

It was Jake who saved my life. We grew up playing in the same junior league. Eventually, we both earned starting spots at Michigan. I was the third draft pick our year to join the NHL, he was the thirteenth. We both went to the Penguins.

After the injury, I shut him out like I did everyone else. But he’s not the type to let anything or anyone go. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he showed up one night during my shift at the bar with a one-way plane ticket in his hand. He’d just been traded to the LA Kings, and he was anxious about moving across the country all alone. He gave me the plane ticket, ordered a burger with fries, and left me a ten-thousand-dollar tip with a note at the bottom of the receipt that said, ‘You’ll have your own room. Oh, and I signed you up for surfing lessons. You start Monday.’

I didn’t think. I just left the bar, packed my life into two bags, and moved across the country into the spare room in his downtown LA apartment. We’ve never looked back.

Here we are, six years later, and Jake is one of the top-ranked defensemen in the League, notorious for his ability to grind men into the boards. He was one of the first trades Jacksonville made. And he doesn’t keep anything from me. I know he’s got a five-year contract worth over seven million a year. There was a handsome signing bonus too. Nice enough that he bought a beach house. A gorgeous place one block off the water with great views of the ocean.

More importantly, I know he was responsible for getting me this job as Assistant Equipment Manager. He hasn’t said anything, and he won’t, but I know. This is the first job I’ve had in the hockey world in six years. It was time to come home. He knew it and so did I.

So here I stand in the narrow hallway outside the practice arena, sharpening Jake’s blades—my best friend, my guide through the crazy, confusing world of the after.

I kill the sharpener, giving the blade a closer look. A few of the guys come shuffling behind me in their brand-new practice uniforms. “Hey guys, lookin’ good,” I call out.

They both grin. They’re young guys, both new recruits. Sully follows close behind them, giving me a pat on the shoulder with his gloved hand. No. 19, Josh O’Sullivan, is a twelve-year veteran of the NHL. I fully expect coach to give him the captaincy. He’s a great pick—grounded family man, keeps his nose clean with the press, and apparently, he knows his way around a grill.

“Hey, dinner tonight at Rip’s,” he says as he passes me. “We’re celebrating the end of the preseason. Be there!”

I wave him off, moving in the opposite direction towards the equipment manager’s room. Jake’s was the last set of blades I needed to sharpen this morning. I bring a load of fresh laundry through into the locker room.

“Hey, Sanny,” Morrow calls. He’s a defenseman too. “Did you hear about Rip’s tonight?”

“Yeah, Sully just told me.”

“Cool. You comin’?”

“Probably.” I toss him his jersey. “A man’s gotta eat.”

He stuffs his head into the jersey. “Cool. You bringing the DLP?”

DLP. Domestic life partner. One of the first things the players did once they got traded to the Rays was start a group chat. Not all the guys are on it. In fact, it’s a sore subject for some of the more eager rookies that they aren’t considered ‘in’ enough to be added.

When a couple of the guys found out Iwas added, they lost their shit. The joke spread like wildfire that I had to be added because I’m Compton’s domestic life partner. We don’t even live together anymore, but the nickname stuck, and now one or both of us use the DLP excuse all the time to get out of plans.