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TWENTY-SIX

Clay

The day after my discussion with Frank and Demski, I’m giving a tour of the team’s facilities to our new third-string goalie. Twenty-two-year-old Zack Walcott has been called up from the Cougars’ AHL affiliate, the Rocky Mountain Raptors, in order to back up Hale.

I push open the door to the dressing room. It’s set up for game day, with fresh jerseys hanging at every stall.

Walcott follows me inside. A guy’s first time in a big-league dressing room is usually a moment for big smiles and a few sheepish selfies. Walcott only glances around with narrowed eyes, as if expecting something more. “Where are you putting me?”

He’s cocky as hell for a kid from Saskatchewan who’s never played a single NHL game. After introducing myself, he’d told me to call him “The Wall,” explaining, “That’s my nickname. I live it like a mantra.”

Whatever.

“I think they have you over there.” I point to a stall behind us, near the door. “And if you need anything, our equipment guy is Banks. You can usually find him in the sharpening room if he’s not here.”

“Thanks,” he says coolly.

Kapski hustles into the room. “Hey! Just the guys I’m looking for,” our team’s captain says, thrusting a hand toward the newcomer. “You nervous?”

The kid smirks as he shakes Kapski’s hand. “Nah, it’s nothing I can’t handle. Just looking forward to shooting my shot. Hale probably can’t go three games straight without a fuckup, right?”

“Well…” Kapski laughs awkwardly. “We’ll see how it goes, yeah? Glad you’re fired up.” When the kid turns away, Kapski meets my gaze. His expression says: Can you believe this guy?

Unfortunately, Hale has just stepped into the room. I scan his expression for a sign that he heard that exchange. I sure hope not, because Kapski didn’t actually agree with the little asshole. He was just being polite. And if all goes according to plan, Walcott—no, The Wall —won’t step onto the ice except for warmups and practices.

Hale is unreadable, though. He greets us with a quick nod and then crosses to his stall to remove his shoes as more players stream into the room.

Today, we’re playing at home against Seattle. They’re having a great season, and it won’t be an easy game. I get busy working my usual routine, greeting players and checking in with the training staff. I’m wearing my sharpest suit and my luckiest tie, and I’ve watched every minute of tape we’ve got on Seattle.

But the truth is that I’m extra nervous about this game, and I don’t like thinking about why. A month ago, I was pissed as hell to see Hale show up. Now I’m nervous he’ll blow this shot, and Frank will find some way to make him disappear.

If that happens, Jethro’s career is probably over. For reasons I’m unwilling to analyze, I’ll be devastated.

Fuck me. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

The game is hard fought from the first moment. By the end of the first period, we’re tied at 1-1, although that score doesn’t really reflect the way the game is going. Seattle is on fire, and they’ve had twice as much possession time as us. It’s embarrassing.

Furthermore—as the entire state of Colorado feared—Hale looks a little shaky in goal. The puck he let in could have been avoided with sharper body positioning.

When it’s time to address the team at intermission, I choose my approach carefully. A coach’s anger can be motivating, but it isn’t always the right strategy.

“All right, troops,” I say, clapping my hands. “We step into the second period with a clean slate. Let’s make good use of it. Seattle is on a winning streak, and they’re feeling a little smug. Don’t let them get away with that attitude. You’re sharper than this. I need you to talk to each other. Newgate and DiCosta especially—pick a damn strategy for shutting down their winger. He keeps getting past you.”

DiCosta nods, his face serious. “On it.”

“Wheeler? Stoney? You look too tentative. Enough with the watching and waiting. Take back the puck and make some opportunities.”

They nod at me, too, red-faced from exertion.

“And Hale?” I tread lightly here—not to save his feelings, but because I think he already knows what’s missing from his game tonight. “I just want you to pretend it’s me shooting at you. That’ll get you angry for sure.” The room erupts with surprised laughter. Even Jethro smirks.

Before long, we’re back out there for the second period. Five minutes in, I’m sweating through my shirt. Kapski’s line has found their mojo, but Jethro is still making everything look hard. His movement lacks fluidity, and his face is creased with discomfort.

When he skates over to the bench for a new bottle of water during the TV break, I can’t help but ask, “You feel solid?”

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“The Wall could go in,” chirps the new kid from the other end of the bench. “I’m ready.”

Hale’s gaze moves at a leisurely pace toward the youngster and then back to mine. Behind his mask, he smirks at me. “Like I said, I feel good.”

And whether or not it’s true, Jethro makes several crucial saves during the latter period of the game, and we make it through regulation time with 2-2 on the scoreboard. He eats a Snickers bar during the intermission before the extra period, while I praise everyone’s fortitude.

Then? We lose the game two minutes into sudden-death overtime, when Seattle scores with a flying saucer from the blue line. I curse as the lamp lights, and the fans moan their displeasure.

Hale, who missed the puck, sinks to his knees in front of the net, a sour look on his face.

“Fuck a duck,” Kapski says. “We got a consolation point. But I wanted better before we head out on the road.”

Didn’t we all . I make a mental note to check that the Tums bottle is in my suitcase. I think I’m going to need them.

In the dressing room, I give out a lot of back pats before heading to my little arena office to make some notes about the game. I’m only in there for a minute before Frank knocks on the door and steps inside.

“Hey,” the GM says gruffly. “Look, it’s time. I’m gonna make a few calls, just in case there’s another goalie on the block. Just to keep our options open.” He winces. “But I swear I won’t make any sudden moves without your buy-in.”

Fuck . For a long moment, I study his lined face and search my feelings. Am I livid right now because that’s a stupid idea? Or because I care too much about whether Jethro succeeds? “Frank, I don’t see how another trade makes sense right now.”

“It probably doesn’t.” He shrugs. “But I did this to us, so I owe it to the team to consider our options.”

I scrub a hand over my face and briefly wonder if I remembered to charge my neck massager. “Do what you have to do. But, for the love of God, don’t let anyone hear about it.”