Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

Bash

I tap Leo’s shoulder as we wait to climb the stairs to board our team plane. He turns and pulls one of his AirPods out.

“Fascinating,” he deadpans.

“It’s got a ’90s vibe.”

“I guess.”

He turns around, but I catch him before he puts his Air Pod back in. “Should I put it on the prom playlist or not?”

He scrunches his brow and gives me a look. “You gonna dance to that song?”

“I mean...I could.”

“Please don’t.”

The line to get on the plane moves and I climb the stairs, putting my phone in my pocket. It’s six a.m. and we’re boarding our first flight to an away game for the season.

Preseason, actually. The routine is the same, though. We’re all a little hungover from the team dinner last night, so it’s quiet this morning.

Our new defender, Anson Hunt, is sitting in my usual seat. I stop in the aisle and shift, then sigh deeply.

“What?” he asks.

“I usually sit there.”

“I’m not moving.”

I pretend not to care. It’s killing my vibe, though. I’ve been on a high since last night when I made a fool of myself in front of hundreds of people and it paid off.

But on game days, my routine is everything. I get on the plane, I sit in the same seat every time, and I eat ten cashews and drink half a bottle of water before we take off.

Always the same seat. Always ten cashews. Salted. If they were unsalted, that would ruin my vibe, too. I’m not neurotic about much, but I’m super fucking neurotic about my game-day routine.

“Whatever, guess we’ll just lose,” I mutter as I keep walking.

Another part of my routine is my playlists. Once I’m sitting in the wrong seat, I count out my cashews and start eating them while I pull up my travel playlist.

“That’s What I Like” by Bruno Mars starts playing. I lean back and close my eyes, eating my first cashew while I start my visualizing process.

Our team owner, Hudson McClain, has a sports psychologist work with us on mindset from time to time. You could be in top shape physically, but if your head’s not in the right place, you’re fucked.

After dropping our first preseason game, we’re all in a mood. I can shake off losses when I’m not with my teammates, but practices and travel are different when we’re not winning. They’re quieter. Partially because Coach works us until we’re all about to collapse at practice.

He took it easier on us yesterday afternoon because he wanted us to be ready to play today. We did light drills and yoga. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t thrilled about any of us drinking alcohol at the team dinner last night. Or that we went out afterward.

Too fucking bad. I needed to put myself out there for Lainey, just like she did for me. She did it at just seventeen years old, which is badass. I wanted to up the stakes, so I put my feelings out there in public, with my teammates watching.

I was prepared for her to be confused. Adults don’t usually invite each other to prom. But I hoped she’d see my sincerity and trust that I knew what I was doing.

When we got home last night, she told me she was completely exhausted and needed to go to bed, but she asked me if I was serious about the prom thing. I told her I was completely serious and it was in nine days.

I wanted to kiss her again. Wanted a hell of a lot more than that, actually. But I’m waiting until after our first date. So I kissed the back of her hand and went to bed with a hard-on, as usual.

I finish my cashews, then imagine myself skating onto the ice tonight.

I’m tougher than those Denver fucks. I want this win more.

My focus is entirely on the puck. Its position and my position.

Scoring tonight is everything. I picture myself slapshotting the puck into the net.

Sliding it around from the back. Edging it in.

Making an open net shot. Scoring in a shoot-off.

The sports psychologist taught us a mental exercise. It’s new age and kind of fucked up, but I like the frame of mind it puts me in, so I do it.

I score goals all the time. I find openings where others can’t. Nothing affects my mindset during a game. All I care about when the clock is running is putting the puck in the net.

I envision celebrating with my team tonight in Denver’s brand-new arena. Our sticks are up and everyone’s smiling. It’s a blowout. We’re winners.

Though I’d prefer to be thinking about Lainey, I can’t today. My mind has to be entirely on the game. I get paid a lot to perform at the highest level. All that offseason training won’t mean shit if I let myself slip mentally.

My seat’s beside a window, so I use a blanket as a pillow and zone out, hoping to sleep.

Tomorrow, I can let my mind wander wherever it wants. Today is about winning.

My teammates like to stand in a circle and kick a soccer ball around during the afternoon lag between napping and getting dressed for a game.

But me, I like to spend this part of the day in a mental fortress. I’m keeping all my energy in reserve. With my headphones on and my pregame pump list playing, I walk.

It’s a leisurely walk; I hardly even break a sweat. I have a course charted in every area, but I’m still familiarizing myself with the new Denver one. My walks are in the lowest-trafficked places I can find. I don’t want to stop and talk, but sometimes I’m forced to when we’re on the road.

At home, everyone who works at the arena knows I’m down to wave or nod, but I don’t want to stop. This is part of my process.

I’m listening to “Enter Sandman” by Metallica. Walking helps keep me loose while conserving energy. The tunnel we’ll all be in later is empty now, and I’m about to turn a corner when a ding in my headphones tells me I just got a text.

Eric: I just found out about you and Lainey when my receptionist showed me a video of you singing to her. WTF.

I stop, blowing out a breath.

Bash: I’m shooting my shot. I love you, but I don’t care if you approve.

Eric: Fine. But if you hurt her, I’ll hurt you. Clear?

Bash: Clear. You and Callie can come to the prom I’m having for Lainey if you want.

Eric: Sounds like a cheese fest...

Bash: Okay, granddad. Stay home and count your nose hairs.

Eric: Fuck you. Send me the details and I’ll check with Cal.

Bash: I will. gtg it’s game day.

Eric: Try this time, ok? That last game was a joke.

Bash: yep

I quickly type out the date, location and time of the prom, then resume walking. Eric’s comment about the last game is in my head now. That means I have to return to visualizing. This is why I don’t like any distractions on game days.

It’s hard to get my head into the right place for a game. It takes time, concentration, and effort to minimize distractions. And it can all be undone in a matter of seconds.

Not that he’s wrong. But that game is in the past, and I’m focused on today.

Any player who doesn’t get how much of this game is mental isn’t going to make it. The physical stuff is somewhat out of our control, like with aging and injuries. But the mental part is what you really have to master if you want to play this game long term.

I have to do my part tonight—for my line and for my team.

“Let me see,” our team trainer Melina says with an edge. “Stop moving.”

“Just glue it shut so I can get back out there.”

I took a high stick hit to my face and I’m bleeding. But it’s the third period and when Melina dragged me back to the locker room, we were only up by one goal. It’s 3–2, and I’ve scored two of our goals. I want a hat trick, even though it’s only the preseason.

Melina pours water on my brow, dabs at the cut with gauze, and hisses through her teeth. “Yeah, that’s deep. You want to stitch it now?”

We just got a new team doctor. Her name’s Caroline and she’s too slow and cautious for my liking.

“Just glue it and get me back out there!” I bark before Caroline can answer.

“Easy, cowboy.” That’s Caroline. “I have to stitch this one.”

I groan, frustrated. “Can you not spend an hour talking about it? I don’t need anesthetic. Just get it done.”

I’m lying on an exam table, and she looks down at me, her smile unbothered. “You’re done with this game, Sebastian. I have to trim your eyebrow before I can stitch.”

“What the fuck?”

“We can’t have hair in the wound.”

“Great,” I bark. “How short? Will it be obvious?”

“Yes. This is a deep laceration. And I can’t let the hair I cut get into the wound, either. I might need to shave it.”

Melina slides her lips into her teeth, fighting a smile.

I scowl. “Yeah, funny shit.”

“We can draw one for you with a pencil.” She busts out laughing. “Or dye your other one white so it blends in.”

God. Damn. I’m going to look great for my first date with Lainey. One fucking eyebrow.

“Do you have clippers?” Caroline asks Melina.

“Yeah, let me find some.” Melina checks her phone. “Carter just scored! We’re up 4–2!”

I relax a little. We’re so close to the end of the game that a two-goal lead should be enough for the win. That’s what really matters. I’d rather have one eyebrow and a win than a loss.

“You ready?” Caroline asks me a few minutes later.

My eyebrow is gone and my teammates are back in the locker room celebrating the win. I’m in a side room, and Carter and Leo come in together.

“You okay, man?” Carter asks.

“Yeah, the doc’s about to stitch me up.”

“Are we waiting until she’s done to comment on the eyebrow?” Leo asks.

I sigh heavily. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“At least it wasn’t a tooth,” Carter says. “Eyebrows grow back.”

“You’ll still be able to give half-dirty looks,” Leo quips.

“Okay, here comes the numbing shot,” Caroline says.

“I told you I don’t need it.”

“You do, though. This cut is deep. The good news is your eyebrow will cover most of the scar—when it grows back.”

Carter puts a hand on my shoulder. “Relax, man. I’ll tell Suki to let Lainey know you’re gonna live.”

Lainey. I didn’t even think about her watching this game and seeing me taken away bleeding. She said she was planning to watch the game with Bruce tonight.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say.

“Can you feel this?” Caroline asks.

“Nope.”

“Okay then. Close your eyes and keep your face completely relaxed. If you feel any pain or pulling, let me know.”

“Okay.” I close my eyes, then open them again. “This won’t keep me out for the next game, will it?”

“It shouldn’t. As long as the swelling goes down, and it should with ice and an anti-inflammatory, and this cut stays clean, you’ll be fine to play the next game.”

I close my eyes, better now that I know that. Nothing’s keeping me from the opening game of the season with my team. I could have one eye and I’d be out there with an eye patch.

We all worked hard in the offseason, and we’re ready to give our fans the season of a lifetime.