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FORTY-TWO

Clay

Games three and four are in Seattle. We load up the jet with our best players, equipment, all our hopes and dreams, and fly off to do battle against a young team that I know we can beat. Even so, I spend the entire flight holed up in the office, worrying over my starting lineup.

There’s plenty to think about, but I spend most of my time mulling over my choice of goalies.

On the one hand, I don’t want to mess up our momentum. The “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” school of thought would have me playing Volkov again. On the other hand, we’re still wary of his lower-back issues and trying not to tire him out. I’ll need him in the next round, too.

Everyone has an opinion. Murph wants to put in Hale. The GM thinks I should play Volkov again, but my gut says he’s wrong. And I can’t decide if my gut is telling me the truth, or if I’m every bit as tangled up over this question as Jethro and I used to be, well, tangled up together, naked and sweaty.

Needing more input, I text Coach Demski, who’s traveling with us to Seattle.

You awake? I need a consult.

Gimme five, I’m in a hot hand of poker.

Sometimes I forget that other people think about things besides work.

Demski rolls in a few minutes later. “Thanks for your patience. I won fifty bucks off your D-men.”

“No problem. Let’s talk about game three.”

“Play Hale,” he says easily. “He’s looking strong. We need to keep Volkov rested.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that. But I’m also worried about breaking momentum.”

He taps the table thoughtfully. “Game three after a two-game streak is always a tough win. Seattle will come out strong. They’re fighting for their lives. Nothing about this game is going to feel like the last one. So no matter who you play, they’re going to get a workout.”

“True.” I lean back in my chair. “I just needed to talk it out.”

“You seem tense,” the older man says. “Don’t forget this is supposed to be fun.”

“ Fun? ” I snort. “I don’t think the owner cares how much fun I’m having. We need to win.”

“Of course we do,” he says easily. “And winning is totally fun. But you have to try to enjoy the journey. Otherwise, your players are going to pick up on your anxiety. They’re going to think you don’t believe in them, and that will affect their play.”

I give him a skeptical look. “Is this some kind of goalie superstition?”

“Nah, just good advice from an old man. Athletes are like dogs—they can smell your fear. So you gotta find a way to embrace the moment.” He gets up. “Excuse me, I gotta embrace the moment, too. If I win a few more hands before we land, I can buy the wife a nice gift to apologize for missing our anniversary again.”

After the door closes, I lean back and shake my head. Enjoy the journey .

Thanks, pal . Now when I feel anxious before the game, I’ll be worrying that it’s contagious.

Demski wasn’t wrong about game three. Seattle comes out of the chute with their fangs out and ten thousand hometown fans on their feet before the puck even drops. Their energy is electric, bordering on desperate.

I watch Jethro settle into his crease, tapping the posts. We’re up two games, but playoff hockey is a different beast entirely. One bad bounce, one moment of lost focus, and the tide can turn in an instant.

Hale knows that , I remind myself. He’s been here before .

As the first period gets underway, Seattle comes out flying. Their forwards are everywhere, swarming our zone like angry hornets. Jethro makes his first save less than thirty seconds in, kicking out his right pad to deflect a low shot from Seattle’s top scorer.

“Nice one, Hale!” I hear Kapski shout as he clears the rebound.

But Seattle won’t be discouraged. Five minutes in, Jethro’s up to six saves. Our guys are on their heels, struggling to match Seattle’s intensity.

Then it happens. Seattle’s star center threads a perfect pass through traffic. Their winger one-times it, the puck a blur as it rockets towards the top corner. Jethro pushes off hard, stretching every inch of his frame.

For a split second, I think he has it. Then I see the red light flash behind him.

The arena explodes, and so does my brain. Jethro slams his stick against the post in frustration. It’s only one goal, but it feels like more. Seattle’s played us even through the first two games. Now they have the crowd behind them and first blood.

“Shake it off, boys!” I hear Kapski yell, trying to rally the team. “Plenty of hockey left!”

But Seattle is alive with hope. They keep coming in waves, and it’s all my D-men can do to keep us in the game. And Jethro makes save after save, some more desperate than pretty. By the end of the first period, the shots are 18-4 in Seattle’s favor, but somehow, we’re only down 1-0.

As Jethro skates off the ice, our eyes meet. His jaw is set, his expression grim. He knows this is no way to win.

I give an impassioned speech during the intermission that I probably won’t remember later. Lots of hand waving and you can do this .

But the second period starts much the same way. Seattle is relentless, and we can barely get the puck out of our zone. Ten minutes in, Jethro’s made another dozen saves when disaster strikes—their defenseman winds up for a slap shot from the point. DiCosta skids over to block it, and the puck deflects off his shin pad, changing direction completely. And before Jethro can adjust, it’s in the back of the net.

2-0 Seattle. And an own-goal.

DiCosta gives a shout of frustration. And Jethro’s face is bright red when he lifts his mask for a drink. It’s not anyone’s fault, really, just a bad bounce. But I can see the anguish radiating off both of them.

Finally, our guys seem to wake up. We start to push back, generating some offensive pressure of our own. With two minutes left in the period, Newgate threads a beautiful pass to Pierre, who buries it top shelf.

2-1. About fucking time.

I give another sermon in the dressing room on the theme of we’re still in this thing .

But Seattle is still in this thing, too. They fight us for every inch of ice, every loose puck. Jethro makes a couple of big saves to keep us within one. Then, with ten minutes left, the refs miss a blatant high stick on Wheeler. No call.

I’m livid, shouting at the officials. It should have been a power play for us.

Instead, Seattle is back in our faces. Their forward drives hard to the net, and in the ensuing scramble, the puck somehow squeezes through Jethro’s pads and over the line.

3-1 Seattle.

Jethro’s furious. At the non-call, at himself for not squeezing the pads tighter, at this whole damn game. He whacks his stick against the crossbar, earning himself a warning from the ref.

We pull him with two minutes left, desperate for a miracle. Hale glowers from the bench while Seattle’s goalie stands tall, buffeting our shots.

When the final horn sounds, the scoreboard reads 3-1. As the team files off the ice, I can see the disappointment etched on every face. We let an opportunity slip away. We could have put a stranglehold on the series. Instead, we’ve given Seattle life.

In the locker room, I keep my post-game speech short and to the point. “We got outworked tonight, plain and simple. But it’s one game. We’ll get our revenge in forty-eight hours.”

The post-game rituals seem to last forever. But when the room clears out, I catch Jethro’s eye. He’s sitting in his stall, putting on his shoes, his expression still pissed as hell.

“Hey,” I say, sitting down beside him. “Forty-two of forty-five shots, man. That’s hardcore. Better than ninety-three percent.”

He gives me an incredulous glance. “That game sucked.”

“Not your save percentage, though.”

He gives his gym bag a kick of frustration. “Are you this patronizing to every player who has a bad night?”

“Jesus Christ. Are you this rude to all your coaches?”

We’re standing now, facing off against each other, both of us angry.

“Let me ask you this,” he says quietly. “Did you sweat a lot over the goalie decision for tonight?”

I hesitate.

“You did, right? You got a cramp in your neck wondering if you could be objective about putting me in the net. And now you’re going to go stare at the ceiling in your room and brood about it some more.”

Get out of my brain . “Hale, it’s not like that.”

He gives me a look of fury.

“Last bus to the hotel leaves in five!” the GM’s assistant calls.

Jethro grabs his bag off the floor. He gives me a macho goalie look, all bushy eyebrows and cynicism. “Don’t stew over it, Clay. We can both take this loss like men.”

“Whatever that means,” I grumble, because I’ve always hated that expression.

He strides away from me without another comment, leaving me perfectly positioned to admire his ass.

Like a man.

Two hours later I’m spread out on the silken king-sized bed in my expensive hotel suite. And staring at the ceiling. It’s a nice ceiling, but it’s not helping.

Tomorrow is going to be a busy day of setting up for game four. I’m supposed to be sleeping, but I’m brooding about the second line’s positioning. And also about that bad call from the refs tonight. And about that last, punishing goal from Seattle.

Most importantly, I wonder if there’s anything I could have done tonight to coach the game to victory. I’ll never know the answer.

But there’s one thing I know I could have done better.

I grab my phone off the nightstand, open our messaging app, and bang out a text.

I’m sorry I was patronizing. I didn’t mean to be.

A reply pops up a minute later, and it’s the eye-rolling emoji. And then:

Don’t stew over it.

Oh you should talk, at 1:30 in the morning.

I’m not stewing over the game.

Then why are you up???

Family crap. But I know you’re lying there doing a play by play with your neck in that electric massage thing.

With an angry groan, I yank the stupid massager out from under my neck and fling it onto the carpeting. The thing doesn’t work anyway.

I was just trying to be nice.

Yeah, don’t do that. You can’t be all up in your head about me and win the Cup.

Frustrated, I stab the call icon and wait to see if he’ll pick up.

“Yes, Coach?” Jethro’s voice says a moment later.

“What is your point?” I demand. “What do you want from me?”

“A lot of things,” he says silkily. “But I can’t exactly reach through the phone and grab your dick. And you took that off the table, anyway. Or you tried to, but as far as I can see, it’s not working.”

“Of course it’s working! What are you talking about?” I’m so frustrated right now I want to throw the phone across the room.

And the stupid truth is that if he were here right now, I’d do whatever he wanted. Plus some more. Maybe then I could fall asleep.

He sighs. “Look. I can’t play hockey if I’m worrying about disappointing you on a personal level. And you can’t make good tactical decisions when you’re carrying the weight of my teetering career on your conscience.”

“I’m not,” I insist. “That wasn’t our problem tonight.”

“My mistake, then.”

I sigh.

“Look,” he says. “You chose this. Your whole life is set up to win this championship. So go do that, no matter what it costs. Tonight was a shitty game, but I’m not going to crumble. I’ll work my ass off any time you put me in the net. But it’s your job to use me like any other weapon in your arsenal. Deploy me or don’t. But don’t second guess us both, because it’s not helping.”

There’s a tight band of discomfort around my chest, because the truth hurts. “You’ve been heard.”

“Clay, I need the Cougars to keep winning. The minute we lose, I’m on a plane to Michigan, dealing with family stuff. So try not to let that happen right away, yeah? Be brutal. Play me or don’t. My time with this team is short either way, so make it count.”

I wince at every blow he delivers, because every one of them is a direct hit. This is exactly why we keep experienced athletes on the roster. They can see the bigger picture.

But something else he just said is bothering me. “Is everything okay with the family?”

He’s silent for a second. “Clay.”

“Hey—I ask about everybody’s family. Pierre’s girlfriend is pregnant, so Liana is sending a fruit basket. And Dougherty’s kid just got braces and a teddy bear from the team.”

Jethro snorts. “All right. Here’s the Hale family update—my felon of a sister finished rehab and got transferred back to genpop. My kid wants to spend time with her this summer so we can all watch her relapse.”

Oh shit. “Well, Mr. Hale, the team usually sends roses for this kind of family milestone. But Liana can probably recommend a thornless arrangement if we’re worried about shivs.”

He barks out a laugh. “That’s nice, Coach. But a team who really wanted to show their love would send a carton of cigarettes. I’ve heard they’re like gold inside.”

“You’re right. Nothing says we care quite like contraband tobacco. I’ll ask my assistant to update our gift policy.”

“See that you do.”

I smile up at the ceiling. Talking to Jethro makes me feel less lonely. But he needs me to coach the team as if he’s just another player.

If only I could figure out how to do that.