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CHAPTER THIRTY

John

One month has passed since vacation, and today is the season opener.

Seattle is predicted to be number one in the northwest division.

The locker room buzzes with anticipation.

The only feeling that comes close to the excitement of the first game of the season is the playoffs.

Now, I need to show that I’m worth every extra dollar the Rattlers are paying me.

I check my phone and find a message from Becca.

I’m at Corbin’s with Oakley, Lettie, and Adam’s wife, Winnie. Corbin set up two televisions, side by side, so we could watch both games. Good luck. Don’t text me back. Concentrate on your game. We’ll talk afterward.

I hit the heart emoji, making sure she knows I got it, place my phone on the top shelf of the locker, and finish taping my stick.

I’m not used to this captain role, and giving speeches isn’t my thing.

I practiced with Becca on the intonation of my voice and changing my voice levels.

Like any good attorney, Becca knows how to speak and grab someone’s attention.

Coach Taggert comes in, talking strategy. When he’s done, it’s my turn. Nerves wrack my body, not about the game but being a leader. So, all I do is raise my stick, and claps start slowly and pick up speed. When it stops, I say, “Play together and know I have your back. Let’s destroy them.”

That’s all it takes, and the guys are practically clawing their way out the tunnel to the ice.

Time for the puck drop. Freisz, our center, holds steady, waiting.

The puck drops, and he slices it out to our right winger, Hawley, a young kid from Texas, starting in his first game.

The Seattle defenseman crashes him into the boards, nothing to fight about, but Freisz finds the puck and sends it out to Canup.

He swings his stick and with a wrist shot finds the back of the net.

The horn sounds to very little applause.

A few family members have made the trip. Not mine.

The score stays Rattlers one and Seattle zero until three minutes left to go in the third period. Seattle scores, with a high-flying goal over our goalie’s shoulder. Their crowd goes absolutely nuts, and I hate that fucking feeling of defeat. I should have been there. Stopped it.

Hawley tears up the ice with his speed but loses it as he’s tripped, but the ref doesn’t see it.

I squeeze my stick as the opposing winger barrels down the ice with his eyes focusing on the net.

My skates dig into the ice, and I’m ready for his signature move where he cuts inside.

The moment he pivots, I slide into his path, forcing him away from the net, positioning my body to block any pass to his trailing teammate.

The puck skips off a skate, and I lunge, jarring it clear and passing up to Friesz before Seattle can recover.

Always alert, I survey my team’s position, ready to defend if the puck gets knocked away from our center.

I skate forward as our team battles for a goal.

Pass. Knocked away. Recovered and passed out until Hawley takes a shot, and it bounces off the metal pole.

I creep up farther as their defender body checks Hawley.

Looming and lurking, I wait for my chance to defend Hawley but never stray too far so that I can’t race back to guard our zone and goal.

The puck gets wrestled away, and their center slices through the ice, threatening to score… on me. My heart pounds, adrenaline sky high as the ice shrinks between their center, the puck, and me.

He dices me up like onions on a cutting board with one little head fake, and I’m left behind in an icy spray of shavings.

Luckily, Palici picks him up and disrupts his flow, and the center must pass.

I anticipate the pass and send it soaring down the left side to Canup, who sinks into the back of the net.

Forty-five more seconds of defending a rush of shots on goal, and we win.

During media time, an asshole reporter compares me to my dad. “At this point in your father’s career, he made…” Blah blah, I tune him out.

When he finishes, I retort, “I’m not my father. Never will be my father. Never want to be my father. I am me. I leave it all on the ice every time I play. Next question.”

The reporters have learned of my relationship with Becca.

Partly because of me doing that first interview with Bob.

Becca wondered how he had that picture and since then, a few others have popped up.

Most were attributed to Oakley and her social media posts, but there has been one of us when we thought we were by ourselves.

“Do you think your long-distance relationship is affecting your game?”

I burst out laughing, and Freisz sits by me, and his knee taps mine as if to say, don’t let them get to you.

“Not talking about my personal life right now. In my opinion, I played fantastic, other than one time. They didn’t score. Palici saved my ass, but that’s what being a team is all about. Having each other’s backs.”

When I get back to the hotel, I text Becca to let her know I’m going out for drinks with the guys. On the road is when you build a bond between teammates. Back in Dallas, we practice and go home to their families.

Becca: I’m okay. Great first game.

Me: Not really but a win is a win.

Becca: I’m not feeling well anyway, so we’ll talk tomorrow.

Me: What’s wrong?

Becca: Probably the chili cheese fries Oakley made.

Me: My girl is used to fine wine and brie.

Becca: Now I’m eating bar food. Have fun and buy Palici a beer.

Me: You paid attention.

Becca: Always you’re “my guy.” Night.

Me: Take some ginger. It settles your stomach. Love you.

Becca: Love you too.