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tyler

Miserable was one word. Pissed was another. I lived in a constant state of anger, but I'd grown used to it by now. So many things to be angry about in this past month.

I was mad at Halle for being so unforgiving. Then I was angry at myself for not trusting her in the way I should have. Now, I was mad at Kirby. Indescribably pissed off. He knew how much I cared for Halle. He knew how much I missed her. He'd possessed full knowledge of the fact I wasn't over her, and he'd still gone down there. The action was unforgivable. I made sure to let him know how big of a dick he was.

In practice, I'd been set to lay him out. Pat had cleared my head slightly, but I still wanted to settle the score. I couldn't just sit back and watch as Kirby grew close with the girl I loved. Was it too soon to say I loved her? I didn't think so. How could someone cause me so much pain and self reflection if I didn't love them? I wanted to make myself better for her. If only I hadn't been so stubborn at first and refused to call and apologize. Now it was too late. I'd lost her to my best friend.

With Kirby home, I spent my free time in my room. I ignored him with ease. When we had to drive to training or practice, our mutual agreement was stiff silence in the car.

Now was one of those circumstances. It was three days before our season opener. Maybe that's why Kirby felt the need to try to talk to me.

"Tyler can we please figure stuff out before we have to play together? I know you're still pissed and you have reason to be, but we can move past that? If not for my sake then the team's."

"Can't move past someone I love." My words were abrupt. I continued to stare out the window, refusing to look at him.

"I didn't know you loved her." His words were low and slightly awed.

"Yeah? Well maybe you should've asked before you flew off and hooked up with her." Kirby didn't say anything back for awhile.

"I didn't...I'm sorry Ty. I should've asked and I should've used my head. I just wanted to make her happy."

"Making her happy entailed sex, right? Couldn't have just been 'I'm your friend and I'll be someone you can talk to?'" I hoped he would deny my words. He stuttered and I looked at him sharply. "So I'm right? You went down there and you..." I was trying to control my anger. I couldn't just reach across and punch him like I wanted to. He was driving.

"I'm sorry, Ty. I couldn't...she wanted it too. It wasn't one sided." I scoffed.

"It doesn't matter. It wouldn't have happened if you didn't initiate it. Do you know she didn't do anything but kiss me when we were together? And I sat back and let her go at her own pace. I didn't push her for anything. Why, then, would she just let you in when she never let me be with her like that?" Kirby was clenching his jaw.

"Because she needed a distraction, I guess. She calls for you in her sleep, you know. She still needs you. I couldn't let her touch me when I knew she'd done the same thing to you. I felt so guilty."

"With good reason." I crossed my arms. I let Kirby's words run through my mind. It really was a mystery. It didn't sound like Halle at all. Even knowing I was in her thoughts during the night wasn't enough to make me relax. "How many...how many times...?"

"Only once. And after that I didn't kiss her much. It didn't feel right. How am I supposed to touch her when she isn't mine? And now knowing that you love her...she's not mine to enjoy."

"But you'd hurt her if you told her that."

"Exactly. What I really want to do is tell her that you two need to put all this shit behind you and get back together. But I can't."

"Why not?" Kirby swallowed heavily.

"Because she keeps telling herself that she doesn't want you. She's closed herself off so much that I don't think you'd be able to get back in, even if she wanted it. She drinks and she got a tattoo. She dyed her hair. She doesn't eat and she runs too much. I'm afraid that I'll break her if I say anything drastic. It's like she's teetering on the edge...of what, I can't say." I knew about the dyed hair, and the tattoo. She'd posted both on her Snapchat at one point. But the drinking was new. Worry bloomed in my stomach. Were these all the after effects of our falling out? It made me want to run right back to her and beg her to take care of herself again.

I didn't respond to Kirby. We lapsed into a silence again. For once, I wasn't angry at him. I was worried. Worried about a girl I'd pushed away. Worried about a girl who probably hated my guts. I'd messed up badly. How could I ever make things better?

&&&

Whatever happened, I couldn't let my emotions distract from my playing. Practices were one thing, but the second I was fully suited up, I became a different person. I narrowed my mind and focused on one thing. Winning. It was the mantra covering every open surface of the United Center, after all.

One goal. One team and one goal. If I was the spearhead to that goal then so be it. I was playing with mostly the same set of guys, minus Gus, Matt Highmore, Corey Crawford, and Brent Seabrook. After his persistent injuries from the past year, Seabs had elected to retire without attempting the '20-21 season. Corey, too, had decided to retire. He'd claimed that ending his career with three Cups and having played with the best American players in NHL's history was enough for him. And of course, the absence of Jon was the most obvious. He had been such a crucial part of the team for so many years. His career as a captain had resulted in three Championship titles. Not many other players could attest to that.

His legacy put a lot of pressure on me. I had massive shoes to fill and sky-high expectations to exceed. All while juggling my never ending feelings about the girl on a college campus in North Carolina. I could only hope things would straighten out soon.

I attacked the first week of games with a vigor. My new first line consisted of Pat and Alex DeBrincat as my wingers, with Duncan and Nick Seeler as my defensemen. At my back was either Robin, or our newest goalie edition. Elvis Merzlikins was a different kind of player that was already a crucial part of the team. The previous season, his rookie debut, had been extremely solid in many ways. He'd recorded multiple back-to-back shutouts, and had ended the season with a 0.934 save percentage. The second Columbus had offered a trade for him, our general manager had swooped. I wasn't sure what the trade had entailed, most likely a first round draft pick, but I did know we'd offered Elvis a sweet contract.

Elvis was an interesting guy. He wasn't too young, but he was a hell of a player. I had no doubt that he could suit up and fit right in as a forward if he wanted to. He liked to play the puck whenever possible, which helped us out when we were in a bind at center ice. He was smart, and could see plays developing well before we did. He was a deadly addition to the team that seriously excited me for this season.

I was ready for the season opener. The game was against Boston on home ice. I knew the team held a slight vendetta against the rougher rival. The Bruins hadn't exactly been the nicest team to play last season. Our last game against them had almost put Dylan Strome out with a bad ankle injury. Thankfully, the injury had just been a bone bruise and nothing worse. Still, Dylan would be out for blood to compensate for the dirty play. The lack of a call had only made things worse.

I arrived at the rink well before the time I needed to. Being early helped me get into the right headspace. And apparently I wasn't the only one. When I entered the locker room, it wasn't empty. One of the rookies, Nicolas Beaudin, was sitting with his head dropped. I rose an eyebrow at him. Nicolas Beaudin, chosen in the first round of the 2018 draft, was fresh off the Ice Hogs and ready to contribute to our team. He was Adam's age, but he'd played major time in the Quebec minors. Whereas most of us had at least played one season with another player, he was completely new. He wasn't the only rookie on the team, though. There was also Alex Vlasic, the same age as me and chosen in the second round of the 2019 draft. This was his first official year as a Hawk, though it was likely he'd be hopping between us and the Ice Hogs. Both rookies were defense, which was badly needed with the trade of Gus and Brent's retirement.

My cubby area was to the right of Nic. I crept by him, not wanting to disrupt his headspace. Everyone had their thing. Maybe this was his. I sat there, scrolling through my phone and waiting for the rest of my team. I would get dressed as soon as Pat got here. That had been our ritual in the past few weeks before playoffs the previous season. Each time, we'd both scored goals and gotten assists in the games. I only saw fit that we held up the simple tradition. As long as neither of us were too late.

Pat didn't leave me time to worry. Within ten minutes, he was promptly inside the circular room and seated next to me. He let out a heavy sigh, rolling his neck against the wood.

"Ready for this one, Tyzer?" I let my head fall back as well.

"Ready as ever." I met his eye, and he nodded. We mirrored each other as we began to get ready for the game. When I lifted my right leg to put it through my jock, he did the same. When he settled his shoulder pads over his head, I was going right along. Finally, we sat down to put our skates on. It was then that I noticed the stares of our newly arrived teammates.

"That was freaky, man." Alex was making a face at Pat and I. We both stopped. I raised an eyebrow.

"Telepathic. Kinda scary. Just do that during the game and we'll be fine, eh?" Shawzy took a seat to my left. I ignored him and resumed lacing up. Pat did the same. As soon as we were done, we went our separate ways. Pat took off to stretch out in his gear, while I stood and began to walk around the room. I rolled my shoulders as I made my rounds. Jon had done this same thing, now it was my turn. I had to make sure everyone was ready, in the right headspace. With the memory of my own first NHL game heavy on my mind, I paused in front of the two rookies. They looked up at me, expectant. I froze up slightly. Jon had done some great 'Ra-Ra Go Hawks' speech, right? I couldn't quite remember. That didn't feel right to me right. Instead, I spoke with my own experience.

"Don't get too psyched out, eh? Play like it's your normal teams and this is a normal game. The more worked up you get, the worse this'll go. Just remember you're our brothers now, and not a damn thing will change that. We'll have your backs, just don't do anything stupid we have to fix. Ok?" They nodded, and I moved on. My eyes found Duncs, asking the silent question. His nod let me relax a little. He approved of my little speech. Good. Maybe now they'd come easier. I wasn't Jon, but I could try my best to imitate him.

Warmups rolled around. I anxiously passed stick between my hands, letting my hands grow accustomed to the new set of gloves. I waited while the team began to walk to the ice. I bumped fists with the fans who lined the entrance as I progressed up the hallway. This was it. My first warmup in my second season in the NHL. What a trip.

Like before, Pat found my side for stretching. We'd borrowed this sliding routine idea from the Bruins themselves, but it was hardly recognizable as theirs now. Like clockwork, Pat and I moved in synch across the ice. Once we'd finished the mini routine, I found a puck to toss over the glass. I carried it with me until I found a sign I thought was cool. Then I flicked the black plastic onto my blade to flip over the net. I made sure that the kid with the sign got it before gliding away.

For one last good measure, I rolled my shoulders out. Time was winding down. The ticking seconds caught my eye. I headed back the hallway, ready for our grand entrance into the United Center for game time. We stood in the order we'd be called onto the ice. I could hear the announcer clearly.

"Get loud for your starting Blackhawks lineup! In goal, number ninety, Elvis Merzlikins! On defense, number two, Duncan Keith! Also on defense, number fifty-five, Nick Seeler!" The announcer dragged out each name enthusiastically. Each call earned a loud cheer from the crowd. "And now, your starting forwards! On left wing, number twelve, Alex DeBrincat!" The line in front of me was dwindling. Pat turned quickly, giving me a deadly grin.

"Ready kid?" I returned his intensity.

"Ready if you are." He smacked my helmet with a glove affectionately.

"Kick ass, kid."

"And on right wing, number eighty-eight, Patrick Kane!" The cheer for him was considerably louder. Of course it was. He was Patrick Kane, after all. I bounced slightly in my skates, shaking my arms loose. It was time to get focused. I stepped forward, ready to fly onto the ice.

"And finally, your captain and center, number one, Tyler Dewalt!" I switched off the crowd as my right foot found the ice. I flew forward until I had joined Pat's side on the blue line. We waited while the Bruins skated out, greeted by a chorus of booing. My eyes took in my opponents.

There was big Zdeno Chara, and the deadly line of David Pastrnak, Brad Marchand, and Charlie McAvoy. Tuuka Rask was a formidable goalie to be staring down across the ice. I didn't meet his gaze, knowing exactly how the older goalie would try to get into my head. He'd done it the last time we'd played the Bruins, and it had worked. Not this time.

While the national anthem was played, I ran through drills and set ups in my mind. The strange calmness that always took over my body right before a game finally settled over me. I was ready to do what I enjoyed the most. It was time to play hockey, with the men I called family.

I settled into the face off against David Pastrnak, aka Pasta. The familiar forward tried to wink at me. I didn't meet his gaze. I don't work like that, David. Finally, the ref dropped the puck. I easily scooped it backwards and over to Pat. The winger set the pace of the game immediately. He took it down the ice, slipping by Zdeno Chara with ease. I was right there with him, as was Alex. I shifted over into Alex's left board spot, while he shifted down to my position. The transition was seamless. We'd hardly needed to communicate, which was ideal. The shift allowed Pat to draw the defenders away, then send the puck across to Alex. I was basically unprotected at the top of the crease. No one expected me to be so perfectly out of position like this. Brinsky laid out a perfect pass up to me, which I immediately sent flying for the net. I cursed quietly when Rask's big white glove snapped up and grabbed the puck from the air. If there was one thing I hated more than a stopped goal, it was quick goalies. That was, only if they weren't on my team. Elvis's reflexes may annoy me in practice, but I knew they'd be perfect during the game.

Elvis had a chance to show off those moves as soon as we retook the face off. I batted the puck away from Pasta again, but this time Marchand grabbed the pass and started flying towards our net. I took off after him, slower than Alex and Pat were. Seels pressed Marchand against the boards hard, but not before he'd thrown across to McAvoy. The set up was perfect. The winger sniped the puck towards Elvis. And hard. Our goalie dropped, but snapped his blocker up. It knocked the puck back towards the center, where Duncan was trying to keep Pasta from sending off a shot. He was beaten to the rebound. This time, Elvis's glove batted the circle out of midair and wide. I had already read where he was sending it. I was on the right, perfect position to receive the save. Now it was my turn to streak up the ice. I saw big Z coming on an intent check. Before he could deliver the contact, I pushed the puck past him and ducked around his massive frame. I wasn't the shortest forward, but I could still get low enough to remain unchecked.

My legs pushed onward, fighting to catch up to the puck. It wasn't hard. I snatched the loose puck before it started to go around the boards. I knew Pat was wide if I needed him. Right now, I was counting on him for the rebound if it happened. Instead of passing, I studied the Bruins goalie. I was able to break down his movements quickly, but it felt like time was moving as if whole minutes were passing instead of mere milliseconds.

I watched Rask and he watched me. He watched the way I dangled the puck to the far left, faking a tip in above his shoulder. He didn't fall for that one. Next, I tried another move. I knew he wasn't fooled by first fake out. So I drew him to the far right, acting like my plan was foiled and he was rushing me. It worked. As soon as I'd pulled him over, I had an open net. In a little tribute to my good friends the Tkachuk brothers, I slide my right foot forward and flipped the puck up from between my legs with my stick. It went bardown, much to my satisfaction.

And with a traditional celly, it was all back. The moves, the passes, the teammates and the scoring. It was all right here, right now. It was all that mattered. It was hockey, baby. And I wasn't going to be distracted.