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FIFTY-ONE

Jethro

Three hours after my big speech, we’re up 3-1 with two minutes left on the clock.

We’re playing so well I could cry. Passes are sharp. The defense is on point. We hit that moment when the speed of play accelerates to blistering. Carolina is skating for their lives, and taking chances.

I see a play developing at the blue line, with a well-guarded pass to Carolina’s sniper. My mind is essentially a supercomputer at this point—weighing angles and measuring outcomes at the speed of light.

There’s no time, and I have to commit to a strategy before I can see the release. I dive to the right just as he fires at the same exact corner I’m covering.

Smack . Right into the glove.

Our bench erupts. As the ref takes the puck from me, I get a look at Clay. He’s waving his hands over his head, smile bright.

I turn my head, panning the crowd. Time slows down. The fans are a smear of Carolina red, with dots of Cougar blue. Their screams of frustration are an aural blur.

“Great save!” my captain says as he drives toward the face-off circle.

It was, in fact, a great save. My life’s work is so well captured in this one moment. The sweat and the muscle burn and the shriek of the crowd. The glory on my teammates’ faces.

I’m thirty-seven years old. I’ve seen everything that hockey can do.

I’ve seen guys cry on the bench. I’ve watched a fight between two coaches that ended up on HockeyBrawls.

I’ve seen a puck get lodged in a player’s playoff beard before the dude accidentally shook it loose and scored on himself. And a guy get a compound fracture so bad that his bone stuck several inches out of his leg.

This is all I know. It’s a big life. And I don’t know how I’m going to let it go when the time comes.

After our win, there’s the usual blur of media outlets waiting to pounce. But Tate chases everyone out of the dressing room except for team members and staff.

Clay walks in, holding his phone. “Guys, I have some fresh news about Pierre.”

The room falls quiet.

“First of all, he’s stable, a bit more responsive, and has not required resuscitation.”

Faces all around me start to relax.

“But they’re monitoring him for heart, kidney, or neurological issues caused by an overdose of cocaine.”

Everyone flinches.

“This is a serious health risk for him, and a sad day for the team. We’ll be monitoring his care. And we’ll be doing a lot of work around the organization—and I’ll personally take the lead on this—to find out how we could have done a better job of supporting him before things got this bad. My only hope is that we can all learn something from this. And I commend you all for the work you did here tonight. I know he’ll be proud of you, too.”

The applause is brief but loud. In a mood that’s pretty somber for a team that just won game two of the finals, we peel off our sweaty gear and head for the showers.

In my hotel room, I realize how sore my bad ankle is as I change gingerly into my pajama pants. My phone rings, and Toby’s face appears on the screen.

“Hey, kid. It’s late .”

“I knew you’d say that,” he chirps. “But I stayed up to tell you congratulations.”

“You watched the game?” Toby is not exactly a hockey fan.

“We totally watched. Grandpop says we have to watch ’em all because you probably don’t have so many left.”

I snort. “Does he know something I don’t?”

“He said if you guys win it all, you’ll probably retire.”

My ankles might like that idea, but it’s not my father’s call.

“Guess what?” Toby asks brightly. “I saw Mom today.”

“You did?” I sit heavily on the end of the bed.

“She’s doing so great . Grandpop said we can go back in three days. Also? Mom needs more money in her account to make phone calls. She wants to call you.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, promising nothing. I’ve kept her commissary account low on purpose, so she can’t trade for drugs. “I’m pretty hard to reach these days.”

“She knows. She said to tell you she’s proud of you.”

“Well, shit,” I whisper, the sentiment hitting me unexpectedly hard. I can’t think of another time when Shelby’s said something like that.

“She said it’s hard starting over, and she bets your ankle is killing you. But you’re doing really well. She also said she watched the last Detroit game on TV the other night and the commentator mentioned you. They said it’s a damn shame they got rid of you.”

I laugh. “Did they? I missed that.” There was so much chatter at Newgate’s house that I didn’t hear a word of the commentary.

“Grandpop signed me up for day camp at the Y, because Trevor is doing it. I get to see him every day for two weeks .”

I flop back onto the bed, phone pressed to my ear. “That makes me happy, bud. I wish I could have done that for you.”

“Are you mad at us?” he asks in a squeaky voice. “You haven’t called Grandpop at all. I know it’s weird we didn’t tell you before we left Colorado.”

I hold back a sigh. “Buddy, I’m not mad at you. I’m a little irritated at your grandpop. But it’s not the kind of thing I can’t get over.” For you , is the unspoken end of that sentence. Toby deserves a family who isn’t constantly at war, like mine had been. He deserves a happy childhood, with day camp and friends and regular visits with his mom.

“Okay, because I think he’s really proud of you, too. You should have seen him yelling at the TV screen.” Toby laughs.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. The thing that Toby doesn’t understand is that it’s easy to be proud of someone when they’re winning. It’s how you treat them when they’re losing that matters. “Let’s hope game three is just as successful.”

“You got this!” he says.

“And tell your mom I said hi, and that I will put three hours’ worth of calls in her account.”

“Cool!”

I sign off with Toby. And now I’m lying on the bed, too tired to finish getting ready for bed. Until there’s a knock on my door.

That’s motivating, so I pick up my weary body and open the door for Clay.

He slips inside, still wearing his suit and rumpled shirt, a troubled look on his face. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

He crosses his arms and leans back against my door, looking uncomfortable. He’s not even staring at my mostly naked body, which isn’t like him.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” I gripe. Then I cross to where he’s still hovering, and I kiss him.

His hands fly to my shoulders, and he kisses me back. Thoroughly. But he still looks troubled when I release him.

“Clay,” I say with a sigh. “Come on.” I loosen his necktie. “Take off this getup. Check out my shower. Relax. You earned it.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, fool.” I thread the tie out of his collar and aim it at a chair. Then I slip his jacket off his shoulders. “At ease, captain. You’re off the clock.”

He sighs and starts in on his shirt buttons. “We’ve got one guy out with the kind of back injury that can fuck you up forever. And one guy who thought it was worth risking his heart function to take some uppers.”

“Yeah, that sucks. But they’ll both be okay eventually. You gettin’ all bent over it won’t actually help. You do know that, right?”

He leans his forehead against my shoulder with a thunk. “I guess.”

“Aw, baby. No.” I run my hands through his hair. “You’re just tired.”

“Am I? What are we doing, Jetty?”

“We’re doing our best.”

“Hockey’s all I have, and I’m fucking it up.”

I laugh. “Says the winning coach who just beat Carolina in their own barn.”

“How come you’re so wise tonight? In the dressing room, you knew just what to say.”

“Eh. Because I’ve had to develop endless patience with people who make bad decisions.”

“I love you,” he says quietly.

My heart swells. “I know. Now take a shower because it always calms you down.”

He walks wordlessly into my bathroom, and I’m calling it a win.