Page 18

It’s weird being back in this arena. Thankfully, I’ve been able to hold onto my head since I got off the phone with Hannah last night. I’m even more thankful that when Monroe came back from dinner, I was out of both the bathroom and my spiral. We talked a bit; he asked about my life when I lived here and if there was anything he needed to watch out for on the ice. I filled him in on what I thought their plan of action would be, and we fell out shortly after.

At morning skate, I felt like I was flying. I had no chains, no worries, not a single bad thought. The physicality of hockey pulls you out of every pit you could possibly find yourself in, more often than not. Reed gives me a pat on the back as we get off the ice, nodding like he knew I was in a better place than I was on the plane yesterday. “We’re going for lunch, you coming?” He asks as we walk through the tunnel to the locker room.

“Yeah, I’m starving; where are we going?” If I didn’t know any better, I’d think our bear of a captain was blushing.

“There’s a café we walked by on the way back last night; it looked good. Not far from here.”

From across the locker room, Wilson’s voice pipes up, “What he means is he met one of the servers on our walk back last night, and she works today.” Well, butter my biscuits, I was right. My captain was blushing. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing.

“That’s enough out of you.” He throws a roll of tape at the back of Wilson’s head. The room breaks into hoots and hollers as everyone teases our captain. It's so easy to be serious and singularly focused on game days that we fo rget the power of being a team. We truly are a family and we joke around as one. I’ve yet to have a pre-game skate filled with team tension, even when I feel like I’m a rubber band pulled so tight I could snap any second.

We sat down at a table in the back corner of this little café. It’s quaint; the floors are dark, rich wood; the walls are painted a sagey green that compliments the towering trees outside, and the tables and chairs are made with lighter wood. True to the naturalist vibe, their menu is handwritten across chalkboards that line the walls behind the register. There are pastries stacked in display cases, and the smell of coffee permeates the air. My mouth waters in anticipation.

“Do we even know if the food here is good?” Samuels asks. If looks could kill, Reed’s icy glare would have dropped him in half a second. It doesn’t deter him, though; “I mean, aren’t we supposed to be eating hearty food? Steak and eggs, not croissants and cheese.” My stomach agrees; this isn’t the normal routine for any of us.

“They have avocado toast with eggs, you blind bat.” Reed’s giant finger pokes at the menu like it’s proof of life.

“Avocado? What the hell do I look like?” Samuels leans back in his chair as a scoff leaves his mouth. “A yoga instructor?”

“More like a wannabe inf luencer.” Tilly cuts in, his smirk so deep his dimple pops. He kicks his leg out, hitting Sameuls’ chair just hard enough to make it wobble.

“Keep it up, Tills. I’ll make you eat your words.” He clapped back, smacking him in the shoulder as Tilly took a drink, making water slosh all over the front of him.

“It’s alright, Samuels; we all know your complicated relationship history with carbs. Those abs aren’t going to cut themselves.” Graham chimes in.

Reed smirks, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “He’s not scared of carbs; he’s scared of commitment. Watch, he’ll order a salad with no dressing.”

Samuels’ arms go flying, “Oh, come on! I ordered a salad with no dressing once, and you’ve turned it into a personality trait.”

“Dude, you asked for a side of lemon so that you could ‘control the calories, ’” Warner cracks up, as does the rest of the table.

Before another word could be said, a girl walks over; she’s totally his type. Long brown hair, light brown eyes, curves in all the right places. I internally roll my eyes at the fact that I know what my captain’s “type” is. “Hey guys, I’m Selina, what can I.... Oh.” She stops, a blush creeping up her face when she meets Reed’s gaze. He has one eyebrow raised as if to ask her why she stopped talking; I’ve never seen him so still. It’s almost like he’s scared she’ll bolt if he does.

She pulls her lip in between her teeth, blinking at us a few times before continuing. “What can I get you guys?” Reed orders first, then clasps his hands under his chin and watches her with a ghost of a smile on his lips as she takes the rest of our orders. Her pen flies furiously across the pad she ’s holding, eyebrows pulled tight in concentration. She is all kinds of flustered; it’s as endearing as it is awkward.

“Dude, are you going to propose, too?” Andrews asks with amusement. He gets a napkin thrown at him in response, but it seems to break Reed out of the trance he was in. The conversation quickly picks up to our game, what strategy we think might work best, and how the cold and the gloom of Washington might affect how we play. And so on.

Our food gets dropped off, and we all dive in like the bottomless pits we are. I’m about to take a bite when the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Setting my fork down, I straightened up, looking around the café for what could be causing the abrupt change. I see nothing, but I’m still unsettled. I can’t afford not to eat before a game. Despite the growing knot in my stomach, I push through until my plate is empty. I’ve withdrawn from the conversation; luckily, the guys have decided to gang up on the lovestruck fool, so my sudden change in demeanor isn’t noticed.

It's moments like this that I’m more than happy that I was physically removed from Washington. I don’t know that I would have gotten out had I not been. I let a woman into my deepest, darkest places, and she not only extorted it, but she turned our entire relationship into psychological warfare. Knowing my struggle, she did everything she could to keep me toeing the line between being okay and slipping into darkness, knowing I wanted to start a family, and then using that as leverage when I tried to break things off.

Sometimes, I wonder if I would have gotten better had I not landed myself in that situation. One that stripped me bare of everything I thought I was, everything I t hought I knew about myself. I wonder if I would be lightyears ahead of where I am now in terms of getting stronger mentally. Instead, my already defunct brain was put through military-grade degrading. But here, at this moment, I feel lighter. The hold she had on me is a little less. I can trust myself and my judgment again. It feels good.

“Alright, pretty boys, it’s time to put our game faces on. Do what you need to do, go take a nap. Have a nice bath, watch a movie, foam roll, I don’t know. Whatever your pre-game routine is, go do it and come to the ice ready to kick some ass!” Monroe calls, pulling me from the dissociation I had slipped into. This is it; it’s game time.

Sitting on the locker room bench, I clench my hands until my nails dig into my palms. My leg is restlessly bouncing as I listen to my pre-game playlist. Right when my breathing starts to pick up, my phone vibrates; I smile as I read the first text.

Hannah: Good luck, Dozer. You got this! Abby and I are cheering you on from here. ??

Greyson: Thanks, Kitten. I got my collar and my gummy bears. Ready to roll.

Hannah: Ahh, you’ve got your battle gear. ??for good luck.

Greyson: Best pre-game text ever. My goals tonight are for you. ??

Hannah: You’re sweet, Wilder.

Greyson: Talk to you after, Kitten.

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My parents are her e; they knew I’d need a bit of extra support. Anytime they come to a game, I feel like I get a proverbial kick in the butt. Additional motivation to do well, but knowing Hannah is home watching, it’s like someone put a jetpack on me and said fly. I put my left skate on first, wrapped the collar around my right ankle before putting my shin guard in place, pulled up my sock, and tapped it.

When we’re all dressed, sticks taped up, and ready to go, Coach Stevens comes in and gives us the usual away game pep talk. I find myself nodding along to what he’s saying; soon, he’s done, and it’s Captain Reed’s turn to hype us up. And boy, does he; I’m bouncing on my skates, adrenaline flowing through my body, and I’m honed in. I have a great feeling about this game; we’re going to crush it. This team, these guys, we’re a family. And we sure as hell show up as one.

A wide grin spreads across my face as the national anthem ends. My chest feels light, my vision tunnels and my mind goes quiet. It’s pure bliss, the real reason I play hockey. My opponents they’re my demons in human form. I work out my issues here, on the ice. Depression who? I just slam that sucker into the boards until it has no legs to stand on. Anxiety? Panic attacks? Nope, just a rubber puck I plan to smack as hard as I can, sending it away from me and into the net.

Coach Stevens calls our line, and Reed, Monroe, and I hop over the boards and skate toward the puck. The Cascades are putting on quite the show; unfortunately for them, I know the script. I anticipate the play they make when the puck gets into our zone and quickly swipe it from their center, shooting it down the ice into the neutral zone.

Reed circles back while Monroe is at my left as we cross the blue line into Cascade territory. He grabs the puck, sending it into the boards. It slides right to Reed’s stick, and he fakes a pass back to Monroe but sends it to me at the last second instead. I almost missed it, the puck hitting my skate. I kicked my foot out, and the puck miraculously made it past the goalie's left foot into the goal.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” I hear right before I’m pushed into the boards by my teammates. Throwing my head back, I let out a belly laugh that shakes the last little bit of unease out of me. What a goal, a freaking lucky goal. I point at the camera and wink as I skate back to the bench, hoping Hannah knows that it was for her. I look behind me to see my mom jumping up and down frantically, clapping her hands while my dad has a smile on his face that screams, “I’m so proud of you.” It’s all the ammunition I need to make this one of the best games I’ve ever played in my entire career.

By the end of the first period, we’re up 2-0; we’re hoping we can win this game as a shutout. The locker room is loud; the entire team is wired. It’s our first away game this season, and we’re playing seamlessly; all the time we’ve spent perfecting our line changes is really paying off.

Quick on, quick off, allowing as little time as possible for the opposing team to get the upper hand. The 20-minute intermission goes by in a flash, and we’re back on the ice. Samuels ended up scoring one more in the second period, and I scored one more in the third. Taking our final score to 4-0, it’s something to celebrate.

After a quick showe r, I got dressed in the game-day suit I had come here in and headed out to meet my parents. I ignore the press because I have zero desire to talk about my past in Washington and how it felt to play my prior team. Luckily, Coach doesn’t make me; with Monroe and Samuels scoring goals, too, they take over post-game interviews.

My mom eagerly waits down the corridor, and when she sees me, she takes off. Jumping at me like a spider monkey, I quickly drop my bag so I can catch her. “I’m so proud of you, honey; you played great!” She’s rubbing my back, and I’m aware of the camera shutters around me; I’ll be painted as a mama’s boy by midnight. I can’t find it in me to care right now, though. I’m happy.

My dad comes up behind me and claps me on the back, squeezing my shoulder. His eyes gleam, and I feel like I can take a full breath for the first time since we landed in Washington. I don’t play for his praise or for his benefit, but I’d be a straight-up liar if I said seeing him proud of me doesn’t boost my confidence. I feel stronger and more satisfied when I get to share these wins with him.

He wraps one arm around my shoulder, the other around my mom, and we walk out as a unit, “That first goal was one in a million, son; that was some quick thinking. I’ll be showing that one off for the rest of my days.” He says it loud enough for anyone in the general area to hear it, the smug dude.

I drop my bag off at the team bus and tell t he team I’m going to skip out on tonight’s celebration in favor of hanging out with my parents. They bust my balls a bit, considering they live fifteen minutes from me, and I see them on a weekly basis. I’m just not in the party mood; I haven’t been in years. A nice, quiet dinner with those close to me is my favorite way to celebrate. Plus, we have another game in two days, and my almost thirty-year-old self doesn’t need or want to be nursing a hangover tomorrow.

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Hopping in my parents’ rental car, I don’t even get my seatbelt on before my mom starts firing off questions. “Did Hannah watch this game? Is she actually supportive of you?”

“Mom.” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I take a deep breath. This is not how I wanted to spend my night. Celebrate with a nice dinner? Yes. Listen to my mom doubt the woman I can’t stop thinking about. No. “I called Hannah in the middle of a panic attack last night; she talked me through it. If you don’t consider that supportive, I don’t know what to tell you.” She sighed, and my dad met my eyes in the rearview mirror.

“But she just left the other day. She didn’t say bye, not a single thank you. That’s not what a considerate, supportive woman would do.” There are lots of things I can look past in my family; this, however, isn’t one of them. I throw my hands in the air, letting out a frustrated groan.

“What we aren’t going to do is talk about someone who isn’t here to defend themselves. You have your other son to thank for her running. If you thought Kara was bad, you don’t know half of what she’s been through. It’s convenient that you completely glossed over her helping me through a panic attack. Had that been Kara, she would have left the house and told me to grow a pair. I’m tired of you and Tatum comparing Hannah to her; they aren’t even on the same playing field.”

She turns around in her seat to face me; concern etched into the corners of her eyes. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay. I don’t want you to fall for someone who isn’t going to catch you this time. It’s nice she helped you through it; I’m glad you have someone you can call during those times.”

“I get it, Ma. I do. But I’m almost thirty. I know my tendencies; I fought it the best I could. But there’s something about her, call it a gut feeling, but I know she’s it for me. I’d appreciate it if you could be supportive of that. I want her in my life. In my heart, she’s already mine. I’m happy when she’s around . ” I can’t wipe the smile off my face; it’s not just happiness, it’s comfort. It’s the way she gives me a safe space to exist. It’s gratitude for the way she’s shown up in my life and fit in as if she’s always been a part of it. Like a piece of me has always been missing, and I found it in her.

My mom nods and turns back towards the front. I know it’s hard for her to let go of her boys, but she’s going to have to at some point. We can’t stay her “babies” forever.

Back in my hotel roo m, I take my suit jacket off and sling it over the back of a chair. The rest of my clothes follow suit. I pull on some black Hawks sweatpants and sit on my bed. It’s nine o'clock at night here, meaning it’s midnight back home. Too late to call my girl. Well, my soon-to-be girl. I close my eyes and lean my head against the headboard; there's a lightness to me tonight that catches me off guard. I just want to sit here and sink into the relief I’m feeling.

Kara didn’t show up today, and there haven’t been any text messages. While I should be wary of that, all I feel at this moment is relief. I get to play the sport I love. I have a damn good team. My parents are here to support me. And I got a text message twenty minutes after the game ended from a sweetheart back home. Life is good. And damn it, I’m going to soak it all in.

The bathroom door opens, and Monroe walks out with a cloud of steam following behind him; his face is covered in green goo, and a towel wrapped around his waist. Raising an eyebrow in his direction, he holds up a white container and shakes it while what I assume is supposed to be a smile crosses his face. “Your turn, Wilder.”

“What in the ever-loving heck is on your face?” I lean over to touch it; it feels like the desert after a drought.

“It’s a green tea mask! Come on, buddy, it’s spa day.” This can’t be happening; I don’t respond or move fast enough because a cold, wet substance coats my cheek. I gasp at the sensatio n. My arm shoots out and smacks my teammate in the chest. The most diabolical grin takes over his face as he tries to swipe another line of goo on my other cheek. My head jerks back just in time, but that doesn’t stop him from trying again and again. Eventually, I gave in and let him put the stupid mask on me.

We sit on each of our beds in the bath robes that we’re in the room, face masks on, drinking water with lemon. I can totally get behind the self-care train. “You good Man?” I look over at Monroe, who is lying flat on his back with his eyes closed and arms behind his; he cracks one eye and looks my way.

“Yeah, I’m good. Why?”

If there’s one thing I've learned about having friendships with teammates, it’s that the friendship you have with the guy you’re sharing a room with is the most important one. “Just checking in, it’s the first road game. Hits everyone differently. Did you leave anyone at home?”

“You asking if I have a girl, Wilder? Nah, but not to worry, you’re totally my type.” He smirks as his eyes close once again.

I lean back against the headboard, settling in for however long we have to keep this goo on our faces. “You have family in Tampa other than your mom?”

“It’s just her. She has siblings, but she doesn’t talk to them anymore. She really is just a shell of the woman she used to be. It’s so hard to watch.” His voice takes on a hint of sadness.

“Did you learn this spa day stuff from her?”

He nods absently, “She suffers from PTSD after seeing my dad die. Doing stuff like this was a way to get her out of her own head. I’d always pretend I was a spa attendant. My name was Ricardo.” He smiles at the memory, his neck taking on a pinkish hue. “She used to love it; she had a bell that she’d rin g when she was ready for her cucumber water. It was the one time she’d actually play with me. I was so young when he died that I craved companionship. So, I turned it into a game to get her to hang out with me, I guess.” I honestly don’t know what to say to that, so I hum instead.

“Now, it’s a way to feel connected to her. She’s still in town, but she never comes to games, and we only really see each other around the holidays. Not for my lack of trying. I miss her, you know? And maybe it’s not even her since she’s been this way for most of my life; maybe it’s that I crave the connection that should have been there.”

Before I can register what’s happening, my vision blurs, and my throat all of a sudden feels like there’s a rock stuck in it. I wonder how much of his personality is a cover for what’s underneath, similar to the way mine is.

“I’m sorry; I’ll gladly be your spa customer any time you need one, Ricardo.” Turning to him, I look at his face, and the longing there is heavy. He doesn’t look like the joker of a guy I know, even from behind these hideous masks, which is the only possible reason for what comes out of my mouth next. “You look like the Hulk, Monroe.”

“And you look like Shrek.” We laugh like two cackling hens, people-watching at an old folk’s home.

Time for Game 2, and then we get to head home and pop off at the carnival. The crowd is loud; even from the locker room, the energy is more chaotic than it was on Tuesday. I pop my headphones in, start my pre-game playlist, and begin to get all my gear on. I smile when my hand lands on the pink fabric in my bag. The bell fell off last game, but I still snap it around my right ankle.

I take my three gummy bears, pop them in my mouth, and head out to the ice for warmups. As soon as my skates hit the ice, I looked up, and a smile took over my face. My eyes searching for my parents behind the bench, my jaw dropping at the sight of Tatum sitting next to them. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, glaring daggers at Cascades fans, but gives me a smug look when our eyes meet.

He had a soccer game yesterday, so he said he wouldn’t be able to make it, but surprise, surprise, he’s here. A bark of laughter leaves me, my head shaking as I skate to the glass and hold up my glove; he fist bumps it, and then I skate off. Giving them a curt nod, once we get on the bench, I put my head down and focus on the game. My muscles tighten in anticipation, ready to give this team my all. I want to make my family in the stands proud and prove to myself that I deserve to be here despite the little annoying gnat of a voice in my head that tells me otherwise.

Sitting on the bench, my leg bounces as I watch Samuels chase the puck out of our territory. The Cascades have a chip on their shoulder tonight. In fact, they might even be unnecessarily aggressive. “Go, Sammy, Go! On your left.” He hears me and slides to a stop, changing directions faster than the defensemen can register. He spins around him, shooting the puck to Chase Graham, who snags it between the legs of a defender. Lifting up his stick, he fakes out the goalie. He drops down as Samuels picks up the puck and dumps it in the net in a flawlessly executed play.

We jump up, hands thrown in the air as they skate back to the bench after clinching the first goal of the night. They high-five the team down the line as they climb back onto the bench, “fan-freaking-tastic play guys,” Coach calls from his spot towards the end. He’s not wrong, it was beautiful.

The second period is in full swing. The Cascades have continued to play dirty, and the refs are insistent on letting it slide. I’ve been in their faces more than once, usually ending in Reed pulling me away by my collar. He’s the only one who can challenge a call as the captain, but even he’s pissed off. And he’s never pissed off. Coach calls our line, Reed, Monroe, and I take off towards the other end of the rink.

Monroe gets possession of the puck, and I see his line of sight; I rush over to the opposite side of the goal as he sends it into the boards, rounding the back of the net. There’s a banging on the glass right behind me, distracting me from the game. My head lifts, and then my eyes lock with ones I never wanted to see again.

Except she’s got a baby girl on her hip who is holding a sign that reads “Go Daddy! We love you ?” on it. My stomach drops to my feet, the game is long forgotten, and I can’t think straight. My entire body feels like it’s sinking I quicksand; I’m frozen to the spot I’m in. I'm so disoriented with this development that I barely register the “She’s mine!” Coming from an all too familiar voice behind me before I’m plowed headfirst into the boards. The last thing I register is the pain in my shoulder before I hit the ice, and everything goes black.