Page 13

JULIAN

I glance up at the clock as I chase the puck to the other end. Patrik Dackell, our goalie, is already poised and ready. Not that it matters much. He’s let in four goals tonight.

How many have we gotten? Big, fat zero.

The thing is, I know we’re better than this. We play better than we’ve shown on the ice tonight. There’s something about the other team making a goal early in the game that sets us up for failure. We’ve already written the game off as a loss and so our play becomes shit.

Now that I’ve been on two NHL teams, I can see and feel the difference between being on a team that truly gets each other and one that’s playing five different games.

Arizona wasn’t the best team, but they played hard every single time they were on the ice.

There was some damn good talent there, too.

The issue isn’t the lack of talent on either team to explain why they’re having bad seasons.

It’s that the talent needs to be spread between all layers of the team.

There are twenty-odd players on a team. Having six really good ones and the rest mediocre-to-good?

It takes more than six to bring the team into the playoffs.

Maybe we need some team-building exercises.

Colin Backlore heads for the bench and out comes the rookie Nathan Ritchie. It’s his first season in pro hockey. He always hits the ice at full speed and this time isn’t any different. I pass the puck to him on my way to Columbus’ defensive zone and skate ahead.

By the time I’m at the net and turn around, Nathan is passing the puck back to me. There’s not a lot of time to think as I shift to catch it. Even less time to assess the situation around me. But I go for a goal because if I don’t take a chance, I’m definitely not going to make the goal.

As soon as the puck hits my stick, I fling it toward the goalie. Time around the net slows for just a blip and I see the moment that he hesitates to respond. He shifts to his glove side but I shoot low and he doesn’t correct in time to bring his pads down on the ice to form a wall.

The puck slides right under him and hits the net.

We’re at home so the loud buzzer fills the arena. The response in the crowd is loud whether we score the goal or they do. They’re either cheering or booing. It doesn’t matter. At least I finally managed to get us on the damn board with less than five minutes left in the game.

My teammates on the ice circle around me, hugging me.

“Nice shot,” Carter says, tapping the back of my helmet.

“Nice pass,” I tell Nathan. He flashes me a smile.

We gather at the center line and ready for another puck drop. I take a deep breath of the cold air. It feels good in my lungs since I’m sweating in my pads. Feels good on my face.

As I stare at the puck in the ref’s hand, I drown out the noise around us and concentrate solely on the game.

The only thing I hear is the movement on the ice.

A stick hitting it. A blade digging in. Someone to my right letting out a heavy breath.

Columbus number eight bends his head to the right and I hear his vertebrae crack.

Then the puck is dropped and all I hear is sticks. Hitting the puck, hitting each other, hitting skates and pads, hitting the ice. Then blades dig in and we’re off. Chasing the puck like greyhounds around a racetrack.

It heads into our defensive zone. Columbus makes a wild shot and the puck whizzes through the air and lands in Patrik’s glove with a flack . The whistle is blown and we begin again. Unsurprisingly, we’re already back in our zone, trying to defend and get the puck away.

There’s a huddle against the boards that I’m not a part of.

I stay back, closer to the blue line and watch, ready for the puck should it come this way.

It doesn’t, but the stick it hits outside of the huddle sends it toward me.

Likely not intentionally since I’m pretty sure that was Columbus.

Maybe they mistook my uniform for their home colors. Are the Sails blue?

Either way, I spin around and bring the puck to the other side of the ice as quickly as I can. Their defensemen are already there, one standing by their goal and the other coming for me. I stop, digging my blades into the ice, and adjust abruptly.

I don’t manage to get around him, but I can’t ditch the puck right now since I’m surrounded by Columbus. As they close in, I push the puck away.

Columbus moves away from me to follow the puck. I adjust my position. Someone in a heavy Russian accent says, “Fuck you.” I’m not sure who they’re talking to or even who’s talking. Chicago is filled with Canadians and Americans. We have one other nationality and it’s our Swedish goalie, Patrik.

The response I hear is ‘ va chier’ which makes me grin. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s Canada-speak for fuck off, even though that’s not the actual translation.

Columbus’ defenseman adjusts himself to block me, so I move around him.

Just as I do, the puck is loose and coming straight to my stick.

I wind back and hit it hard. This time, it’s heading for their goalie’s glove, but something happens.

Maybe a strong wind shoves the puck lower, or the goalie mistook where the puck was headed.

It whooshes by him, right below his glove, and sinks into the net. The goalie, irritated, hits the bar with his stick as he rights himself on his skates, shoving his mask up and turning his back on the ice.

I glance up at the clock. Less than three minutes left in the game. 4-2. Hell, at least we’re on the board, right?

Once again, my team surrounds me. Like a switch is flipped, the noise in the arena cranks and I hear the crowd once more.

“On fire,” Jimmy says.

With a smile, I think I’m going to head for the bench. I’m not sure what stops me. Instead, I line back up for puck drop and the world around me fades once more.

The puck comes at me, and I head immediately for their goal.

It would be unlikely that we can tie it up this late in the game, coming back from zero, but I sure as fuck am going to try.

Columbus’ number eighteen comes up on my right and shoves his stick against mine to take the puck.

When he pulls it back, he hits my skate and I nearly take a face plant as he skates away with the puck.

A hand yanks me upright. Without looking, I charge after eighteen and barrel into him like a bull, slamming him against the wall.

The whistle blows and I’m sent to the bin for two minutes. Unnecessary roughness. Bullshit. Without comment, I head for the sin bin and take my seat. Just what we need to freeze our momentum in its tracks. Giving Columbus a power play with less than three minutes to spare.

I should have gotten off the ice after the last goal. There will be forty-five seconds left when we’re back up to full strength. That’s it.

The game carries on around me. As I spray water into my mouth from the bottle in the sin bin, I alternate between watching the clock and the game. As I anticipated, Chicago is now waiting to fail and we let in another goal.

I shake my head and stop watching the game, choosing to stare at the clock instead. As soon as my time is up, I skate to my bench and Carter takes my place on the ice.

Coach Taylor Morris’ hand lands on my shoulder, though he doesn’t say anything.

I’m not sure if that’s praise for my earlier goals, a reprimand for my penalty, or maybe a gesture of understanding why I hit eighteen like I did.

Doesn’t matter. I remain with my ass firmly seated on the bench for the last forty-five seconds.

We lose 5-2.

The team is quiet as we make our way through the locker room. Coach mentions my goals and tells us we’ll review the game tomorrow at practice. I don’t speak to anyone as I strip down and head for the hot water.

More than anything, I want to get home. As I stand under the water, I close my eyes and think about Arush standing at the door waiting for me.

I wonder what he does while I’m at hockey.

It must be rough on him that he can’t talk to his friends as often as he once did.

Eleven-hours difference is half a damn day.

I’m not sure how to make him less lonely when I’m gone. I wonder if he’s lonely while I’m home, too? Do I take his mind off missing his family and friends? Can I do better? I probably could.

Unlike Arizona, when I get back to the locker room, there isn’t a lot of chatter. It’s as if the team isn’t friends at all. We’re colleagues. We work together. We don’t have friendships outside of that.

Is that the better way to play the game or is that part of why we just don’t gel together on the ice? Hockey, like so many sports, is also a mental game. So does it somehow play into our disconnect that we’re not friends?

Doesn’t matter right now. All I want to do is go home.

Carter claps my arm on the way out, offering me a big smile. I think if I were to be friends with anyone on the team, it’d probably be Carter. He’s good people. He’ll also carry on a whole conversation while I just listen. I appreciate that some days.

As I’m pocketing my phone, I see that there are a couple messages in my family group chat. I grin and open it.

Mama

Look at my baby go! Nice goal.

Gramps

A second goal! It’s all you tonight, son.

Mama

So proud of you, baby. I don’t know what your team was doing, but good game tonight.

Pops

I echo your mama. We’re very proud of you, son.

I sigh. I’m maybe biased, but I have an amazing family.

I send a thank you and let them know I’m getting in the car to explain why I’m not answering anymore.

There have been a lot of times in my life when I’ve been thankful for my family.

They’re supportive in everything I do and they’re the most loving people I’ve ever known.