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FIFTY-FIVE

Jethro

From my seat on the trainer’s table, I see Tate approach Clay. I can’t hear exactly what’s said, but Clay goes white. And then they both disappear.

My stomach dives. There’s no reason to believe that someone is running a story about me and Clay. But that’s where my mind goes anyway. And if it happens to be true, then everything Clay worried about will come to pass. The narrative will make a sudden shift from success to scandal.

I spend a long couple of minutes in the dressing room before Clay reappears, his mouth tight. “Hey Coach?” I call, flagging him down. “You got a second?”

His gaze finds me, and he gives a quick jerk of his chin. I set down the stick I’m taping and hurry after him into the equipment room. “What’s the matter?” I blurt out the second I step over the threshold.

He leans against the sharpening table, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Just a nasty story brewing about Pierre’s overdose. Tate had to warn me in case I’m asked about him tonight.”

My jaw unclenches. “ Oh .”

“I had that same reaction,” Clay says quietly. “For a second, I worried about…”

“Yeah,” I agree quickly. “Same.”

He gives his head a shake. “Go win this game, Jetty. That’s all that matters tonight.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze on his way out the door.

But I don’t move for a moment. I take a deep breath. And then another one. It’s hard to admit when you’ve been selfish. But it’s true. We can’t go on like this, waiting for disaster to strike.

Clay was right. Something has to give.

But the clock doesn’t give a damn about my little midlife crisis. It’s time to put my skates on. Then come the pre-game rituals. On-ice warmups. The national anthem. The whole nine yards. This is the soundtrack of my life.

The arena is so packed it’s shaking. And when the announcer does the starting lineup, player by player, the crowd swells with a cheer after every name.

Usually, I tune this part out. When we’re moments away from the start of the game, I like to use this time to think about the challenge to come.

But not tonight. I feel a prickle of awareness as the echoing voice cries, “Number 31, Jethro Hale!”

I lift an arm and wave to the crowd. It’s an uncommonly enthusiastic gesture for me. Toby’s out there somewhere watching with my dad. And maybe my sister is watching from the prison TV room.

But they aren’t the reason I’m feeling so much right now. It’s because I know this could be the last time I hear my name announced in the arena.

Do I really have the guts to pull the retirement trigger? I guess we’ll find out.

But now it’s showtime. And we’re as ready as we can be.

When the puck drops, the first period kicks off like a tidal wave. It’s a blur of shouted defensive advice, quick saves, and near-misses. We’re playing our hearts out.

Heading into the second period, we’re up 1-0 on a wrister from Stoney, but it’s far from a comfortable lead. Carolina is skating like a pack of overcaffeinated greyhounds. Their captain dekes our winger and shoots the puck. I scramble for it. My ankle twinges as I make a particularly athletic save, but the adrenaline keeps me going.

In the second period, Kapski scores to extend our lead to 2-0. The crowd is electric, sensing how close we are. Time seems to slow down for me. I hear every satisfying smack of the puck against the boards, the shouts of my teammates, the taunts from the opposing players.

“You slow fucker,” their center sneers into my face as we fight over a rebound. I flick the puck away from him and grin.

I’m having fun right now. Who’d want to put an end to this kind of fun?

Clay’s voice is already hoarse as he makes a speech during the break, while the trainer retapes my ankle. “We’re twenty minutes away from history. Twenty minutes from etching our names on the Cup forever.”

Twenty minutes . His words send a shiver down my spine. It would be wild to see our names together after all this time. Fifteen years and twenty minutes .

“But it’s not over yet,” Clay continues. “They’re going to come at us with everything they’ve got. This is when champions are made. This is when legends are born.”

I watch as he locks eyes with each player, his intensity infectious.

When he turns to me, he says, “Hale, you’ve helped carry us this far. One more period. Twenty more minutes of the brilliance you’ve shown your entire career. I know you’ve got it in you.”

His faith hits me with physical force. It’s easy to forget that I stood in his hotel room a few months ago and offered to quit.

What a wild year it’s been.

As Clay wraps up his speech, the energy in the room rises. We’re ready. We’re hungry.

“Cougars on three!” Murph shouts.

He counts down and then the room erupts in cheers and stick taps. As I file out with the others, I catch Clay’s eye one more time.

Twenty more minutes. We’ve got this .

Time to bring it home.

The crowd is loud as the ref sets up for the face-off. I stretch. I breathe. I wait.

He tosses it down, and the other team comes out swinging. Lots of quick passes and chaos. One deke and a blind transfer later, they get off a shot into my corner, and I can’t get there in time. The lamp lights, cutting our lead to one.

Fuck a duck.

I lift my mask, take a drink. I try to shake it off. Suddenly nostalgia over last games seems stupid. Maybe we’re taking this to game seven. Maybe we’re doing this again in forty-eight hours.

But then Stoney gets a breakaway. I stop breathing as he weaves toward the goal and sets up against their goalie. The lamp lights, and the arena explodes!

3-1 with ten minutes left. We can taste it now.

They’re the longest minutes of my life. Every play feels crucial. Every clearance is our season’s make or break. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear the crowd’s roar.

But the clock keeps ticking down, and that’s all the Cougars need. The horn finally sounds, and I straighten up in disbelief.

We’ve done it. We’ve won the Cup. My teammates pour onto the ice, sticks and gloves flying. I glide forward and the joyous pile consumes me, laughter and tears raining down around me.

We fucking did it.

The arena’s lights glint off the Cup as it’s passed around. When it reaches me, I clutch it with both hands. It’s heavier than I remember. And it hits me that this moment—this perfect, glorious moment—might be my last act as a professional hockey player.

A few years back, one of my teammates goaded me into bungee jumping with him in British Columbia. I teetered there on the platform, unsure if I was going to do it until the moment I actually jumped.

That’s me right now. Half of me wants to stay here on the platform. The other half feels the ache in my ankle and the weariness in my bones and the rightness of going out on top.

I take one last look around the arena, trying to commit every detail to memory. Then I lift the Cup high above my head and let the roar of the crowd wash over me one last time.