Page 35

THIRTY-FIVE

Jethro

I’ve sat out lots of games in my career. A season has eighty-two games, and starting goalies usually play fifty or sixty of them. They spend plenty of time on the bench.

But this game feels different. Like a harbinger for the rest of my life.

It’s kind of a dark thought, but luckily, I’ve got a hockey game to distract me and a damn good seat for it.

Montreal is a good team this year, and I’ve always liked playing here. The fans’ passionate shouting sounds better in French, especially since I can’t understand the shitty things they’re probably saying about us.

Our guys are playing well tonight, but so is Montreal. Kapski puts in some serious effort moving the puck down the ice, setting up scoring chances, but nothing quite lands like we need it to.

From my spot on the bench, I study Walcott’s every move. The kid’s posture is textbook perfect—shoulders square, glove held high, stick blade flat on the ice.

Between plays, there’s an unmistakable cockiness in the way he taps his posts, in the exaggerated way he stretches after each whistle. It’s the kind of swagger you’d expect from a rookie getting his first big start.

He makes his first save less than three minutes in. Good start for the kid. But Montreal keeps pressing, and our defense is scrambling.

After another few minutes, we finally get a decent offensive push. Stoney threads a beautiful pass to Newgate, who fires a rocket at Montreal’s net. Their goalie snags it out of the air, making it look easy. Like I once did.

“Nice try, boys!” I chrip. But I feel antsy, like I should be out there, too.

The game stays scoreless, but it’s not for lack of trying on Montreal’s part. They’re outshooting us two to one, and Walcott is starting to lose his swagger. He’s making the saves, but his rebound control is shaky. Our D-men are struggling to clear the puck.

“Tighten it up out there!” Clay barks from behind me. I glance back and catch his eye. He looks as tense as I feel.

Just past the eight-minute mark, we get our first power play. This is our chance to swing the momentum. Kapski wins the face-off cleanly, and we set up in Montreal’s zone. For a minute, it looks promising. We’re moving the puck well, creating chances.

Then disaster strikes. Newgate’s pass gets intercepted, and suddenly Montreal’s on a shorthanded breakaway. The whole bench leans forward as we watch their forward bear down on Walcott.

The kid comes out to challenge, but he’s a split second late. The forward dekes, Walcott bites, and...

Red light. The first blood of the night is spilled, and unfortunately, it’s ours.

I check Walcott’s face. He looks white.

“Shake it off, Walcott!” I call from the bench.

He mutters to himself. Resets his stance.

Our guys push back, but Montreal smells blood in the water. They’re all over us, peppering shots at our net. Walcott makes a glove save, and then deflects one with his stick. But he’s started to move jerkily, second-guessing himself.

Clay makes a noise of distress as Montreal’s winger fires a routine shot from the point, the kind Walcott could stop nine times out of ten.

But he hesitates, caught between blocking and catching, and the puck sails right past his glove. The lamp lights again, barely three minutes from the last goal.

The arena erupts. Walcott looks like he wants to melt into the ice.

I glance over at Clay, who’s conferring intensely with Murph. Two goals inside of ten minutes. On instinct, I start stretching. Neck rolls. Ankle movement. Calf stretches. I barely even realize I’m doing it.

The atmosphere in the arena shifts up another gear, the Montreal fans high on their early success and hungry for more.

Meanwhile, Walcott’s body language has completely changed. Gone is the cocky rookie from the start of the game. Now he’s hunched slightly, his movements jerky and uncertain. I can practically taste his anxiety from here.

Don’t give up like that , I mentally coach him. You’re so fucking young .

Clay makes a line change, hoping to slow things down and give Walcott a chance to regroup. For a few minutes, it seems to work. We manage to keep the puck in the neutral zone, trading harmless dumps back and forth.

But then Montreal’s star center intercepts a sloppy pass at their blue line. He streaks down the ice, our defensemen scrambling to catch up. Walcott comes out to challenge, but he’s too aggressive, too desperate to make up for the earlier goals.

When the center fakes a shot, Walcott drops into the butterfly, and I’m watching a horror movie, the kind where you want to shout at the screen— don’t open that dooooooor!

With a flick of his wrists, the Montreal center strikes, lifting the puck over Walcott’s shoulder. The goal horn blares for the third time in less than fifteen minutes.

The kid stays down on his knees, staring at the ice like he can’t believe that happened.

Clay strides down the bench. “Hale, you’re in,” he barks.

I’m already reaching for my mask and a water bottle. As I stand, I catch Walcott’s eye as he skates towards the bench. His face is pure devastation.

“Hey,” I say as he reaches the gate. “It happens. You’ll bounce back.”

He doesn’t reply, just gives a jerky nod.

Taking a deep breath, I glide onto the ice. The familiar chill hits me.

As I skate to the crease, I hear Clay’s voice behind me. “Lock it down, Hale.”

I tap the posts, settling into my stance. The ref is taking his time, so I look up into the nosebleed seats. They’re full. Montreal has one of the largest arenas in hockey, with over twenty thousand seats. I’ve stood here many times, often playing well, sometimes playing poorly.

What’s one more night, right? No reason to get too tangled up over it.

The puck drops, and I settle in. The scoreboard has my guys a little spooked. “Watch the corner, Newgate!” I call. “Move back, DiCosta!”

Montreal looks smug, and maybe a little too relaxed. We can work with that. I come out of the net a little bit, opening up my angles. Watching for Montreal’s first big challenge. They’ll test me to see if I’m as shaky as Walcott.

It doesn’t take long. Their winger fires a quick snapshot from the slot, but I’m ready. I track it all the way, snagging it cleanly with my glove. The familiar smack of rubber hitting leather hits me like a drug.

“Gorgeous!” Kapski shouts as he skates by.

I clear the puck to the corner and play resumes. Our guys seem to find their rhythm again. We manage to keep Montreal to the outside for a few shifts, but they’re persistent.

With about two minutes left in the period, they catch us on a bad line change. Suddenly it’s a two-on-one rush, gunning for me. Their center carries the puck, eyes darting between his winger and my net.

There might be twenty thousand pairs of eyes on me, but that’s not what I’m thinking about as time slows. This is really just a math problem. Angles and timing. The center’s decision versus my reaction.

I’ve been here so many times before. I’m ready when the center makes a perfect pass across to the winger. As the winger winds up for the one-timer, I push hard to my right, extending every inch of my body.

The puck leaves his stick like a rocket. For a heart-stopping moment, I think I’ve overcommitted. But then I feel it—the satisfying thud of the puck hitting my pad. I kick it out to the neutral zone, and our defenseman clears it down the ice.

The Montreal crowd groans in disappointment, but I hear our bench erupt behind me. As I get back to my feet, I catch Clay’s eye. He gives me a quick nod that’s all relief.

“Keep pushing, kids!” I shout, tapping my stick on the ice. “It ain’t over.”

For the game. Or for me.

Two hours later, we lose the game. But we lose in overtime. That’s right—my boys battled the score to 3-3 by the end of regulation time. I made at least thirty saves, and I didn’t let a single goal in until the game-winner, when Montreal got an ugly goal off a messy rebound situation.

After the buzzer, I’m drenched with sweat and almost too tired to skate off the ice. But I’m also…

What is this mysterious emotion I’m feeling?

It might actually be joy. Huh.

Before I reach the tunnel, Kapski hug-tackles me. “Some losses feel like wins,” he says, thumping me on the back. “You left it all on the ice tonight.”

He’s right, and I’m already feeling the effects. But it’s the good kind of exhaustion—the kind that means I’ve earned it.

I make a beeline for the dressing room and take off my skates. I want a shower, but I’m waylaid by Tate as he leads two journalists toward my stall. “Mr. Hale, do you have a moment?” Tate asks.

There’s only one acceptable answer. “Of course.” I rise to my tired feet and wax on a smile.

“That was an impressive performance tonight,” says the guy from ESPN. “What would you say turned your game around?”

I’m too tired to laugh, but it’s tempting. It’s such a backhanded compliment. Why didn’t you stink it up out there again tonight, Mr. Hale? And because I still have a teenage sense of humor, my gaze jumps right to Clay, who’s standing a few paces away.

Athletes are superstitious people, and it’s tempting to credit this win to the nonverbal pep talk Clay gave me after my last disaster of a game.

“Well.” I chuckle, sounding exhausted. “Every slump has to end sometime, doesn’t it?”

Unfortunately, he isn’t completely satisfied with that answer. “What have you and the coaching staff been working on since you arrived in Colorado?” He shoves the mic into my face again.

I glance at Clay again, and inwardly snicker. “Just the basics,” I say with a straight face. “Drills in the net and physical conditioning. They’ve been very patient with me. But I’ve been playing in this barn for years, and all that experience has to kick in sometime, right?”

Behind me, somewhere in my gear, my phone starts ringing. My family wouldn’t call me at this hour if it weren’t important. I reach back and paw around until I find it. I check the screen, and it reads MAPLEWAY REHAB CENTER.

“What is your goal for the rest of the season?” another journalist asks.

“Um…” I hit Accept with my thumb. “I’m really sorry. I have to take this.”

Over the journalist’s shoulder, Tate frowns at me. Then he makes a slashing motion with his hand.

“I really have to take this,” I insist, and he scowls. “Sorry.” I slide around the reporters and edge toward the corridor leading to the showers. “Hello? Shelby?”

“Hi,” she says, and I can barely hear her. “It’s me. I watched your game.”

I blink. “Shelby, you haven’t spoken to us in months. Your kid asks me every night when you’re finally going to call. And you called to talk about hockey?”

There’s a silence on the line, and I mentally curse myself for taking a swing at her two seconds into our first call in months. I meant to do better. But she’s so damn frustrating.

“Shelby—”

“Jethro—” We both try to speak at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” I break through. “Talk about whatever, Shelby. It’s good to hear from you.”

She sighs. “I didn’t call to talk about hockey. Not really. But it’s hard to know where to start. I realize how hard I’ve made everything, and I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes and lean back against the wall. It’s loud around me in the locker room, and it’s loud inside my head. “I can take it. Whatever,” I say in a fit of eloquence. “But would you please call Toby? He’s just barely holding it together.”

“In…Colorado?” she asks. “He’s with you? I asked the director to let me watch one of your games as a reward. She told me you play for Colorado now.” Shelby sobs. “I didn’t even know. I was picturing you and Dad and Toby in Detroit together.”

My heart breaks a little. “We’re still together. But, yeah, Toby had to start a new school. He’ll tell you he hates it, but it’s not going all that bad. He has a couple friends. He joined the robotics club.”

“What’s…what’s that mean?” she asks tearfully.

“Swear to God I don’t even know. He tried to explain it to me. Something to do with LEGO and computer programming?”

We both laugh uncomfortably.

“Thank you for watching over him,” my sister says, her voice thick. “I know you think I dumped him on you.”

You did . “I’ll always look out for Toby,” I say because it’s true.

“Do you know why?” she asks.

“Um…” Is there an answer to that question that won’t get me in trouble?

“Because I’m an addict, Jethro.” She sobs again.

“I know, babe.” My eyes prickle.

“I know you know!” she wails. “But I never said it out loud until this month. I didn’t even want to come to this place. I only did it because it sounded better than jail. And Jethro—I relapsed here.”

“In rehab ?” I can’t even disguise my dismay.

“Somebody’s mom brought her a fix,” she says, sniffling. “I took it from her. Even after all that work getting detoxed, I stole a needle and shot up. Then I got so sick I thought I’d die.”

God, Shelby. You idiot . I take a deep breath instead of saying it aloud.

“Jethro, I thought I deserved it. That’s the thing you never got about me. I do all my stupid shit because I didn’t think I was...” She sobs.

I bite down on my lip.

Her voice is thick with tears as she continues. “There was a nurse who sat with me for twelve hours while I detoxed again. I said, ‘It’s late, just go home to your family.’ And she said, ‘I stayed because you need someone. And you’re worth it, Shelby. Even when you’re a mess, you’re still worth saving. We’re all worth saving.’ But I realized…I never believed that before.”

“Shel, Jesus.” My eyes burn and fill, and it startles me. I haven’t cried since the nineties. “Of course, you’re worth it.”

“You say that…but…” She hiccups. “Not everyone is you. Not everyone knows where they belong.”

I gulp in air. Someone moves into my peripheral vision, and I turn away instinctively.

“Jetty.” Clay’s voice is quiet. Worried.

I give him a quick head shake. Everything is fine. Nothing to see here . He backs away.

“Will Toby be okay?” she manages.

“Yeah,” I grunt. “He’s…yeah. If you call him, he’ll even be great.”

“I’ll do it. Tomorrow. At 3:30.”

“We’re an hour behind,” I grit out. “He needs to hear your voice.”

“Okay,” she squeaks. “I don’t know how to look him in the eye. I can’t tell him the truth—that I always thought he’d be better off without me.”

“That is not true.”

“Careful, Jethro. You must have thought it sometimes.”

“Well…” This conversation is killing me. “It’s been hard watching you self-destruct for twenty years. I never know what to think.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “We’ve, um, talked about that a lot here. I’m working on it.”

All the fight drains out of me, and I sag against the wall. “Okay. I’m sure you’re trying.”

“You don’t have to be sure,” she says. “But I’m still doing it anyway. Now I got to go. Good comeback tonight. Sorry you didn’t get the win.”

“I’ll live.”

“Jethro, I love you. Just wanted you to know that.”

My throat closes up. “Love you, too, Shel.” Even when it’s hard .

We fly home late. Sagging in my seat on the jet, I get messages from three people.

First there’s Toby. He congratulates me on the game. Too bad you didn’t get the win , he says, echoing his mama exactly.

I tell him thanks. And I tell him he’s up too late.

I don’t tell him that I talked to his mom. Shelby has spent the last couple of decades failing to keep her promises. It’s better not to get his hopes up.

This time, though, it feels different. I want it to be different. For both of them.

The second text is from Doc Baker.

God that was fun to watch. But this doesn’t mean we’re done. Gonna be asking you about that vision board.

I’ll get right on it.

The third one is from Clay, who is texting me from somewhere on this same jet.

Are you all right?

I’m fine. Dealing with some sister drama.

Is Shelby okay?

I close my eyes and wonder what to say. I’m trying to be as honest with him as I can, so he’ll know that I’m trying with him. But some shit is so ugly that I’ve always hidden it from him.

When we lived together, I used to listen to you talk to your sister on the phone. And I was so jealous of how easy it sounded. Mine was always in trouble. I’ve bailed her out my whole life, but she and I could never just talk.

I’m lucky. Kait and I are close. But don’t forget I have two brothers I barely know.

Yeah, okay. But there was a lot of pain I might have avoided if I were better at dealing with her feelings.

And also my own .

I get that.

She tried to harm herself. She told me that the reason she’s been such a wreck for so long is that she didn’t believe she was worth saving.

Oh fuck. That’s got to be hard to hear.

Yeah, like I could have told her I loved her, you know? Maybe it would have made a difference.

You were in over your head with her. If it’s any consolation, I knew you loved her. Even if you didn’t talk about her much. I knew you worried.

Well, thanks. She and I are gonna have to take things one day at a time I guess.

Hang in there.

I’m fine. If you’re that worried you can invite me over later.

You know I can’t.

Yeah, I do. If things were different though…

Maybe I’ve overstepped, because he doesn’t respond. I put my phone away and fall into the easy sleep of a guy who didn’t let anybody down tonight.