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We met online a few years ago. Not long before he moved to Seattle to finish school. And, unfortunately, just before I was sent to California. We’ve kept in contact but other than one time I met up with him when I was here visiting Isla, we don’t see each other.
I grew up in the small town of Ely, Minnesota, playing hockey in the shadow of the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame, which was only an hour away. The sport runs deep in those parts and the pressure rivals what I’m feeling tonight.
The dream was always the NHL. Never could I have guessed I’d have a filthy talking pen pal in the stands watching me play. Let alone that he’d be sitting next to the only women I’ve ever loved. The Cole women are special, each in their own way. Isla is the best friend I’ve ever had, but her sister… Fuck, the things Willa makes me crave.
But I can’t think about that now, it will fuck too much with my head. Not to mention other parts, and this sure as hell isn’t the time or place for that. Thankfully, I excel at compartmentalizing my shit through a game. It was something I had to learn as soon as I acknowledged that I wasn’t quite the same as all the other guys I was growing up with.
Being bisexual in a Midwestern small town and being an elite hockey player? Yeah, it was fucking hard. It still is. I’ve resigned myself to the idea that it always will be. This sport isn’t changing any time soon.
“Let’s go, Fane,” Cillian says, tapping my knee with his stick and waiting for me to rise. “You good?”
“For sure,” I answer.
“Good. Get out there and work out any last nerves.”
Once I hit the ice, I realize how right Cillian was. It doesn’t feel different than any other game I’ve played. Other than the noise level, anyway. It’s just warmups so the seats aren’t full yet, but fans crowd the plexiglass and cheer while holding up various signs. Still, it’s going to be so loud when the stands are full. Thousands of people cheering you on does something to your ego and adrenaline. So, I follow Cillian’s instructions and work out any remaining nerves by following the exact same warmup routine I’ve been doing for fifteen years.
I’m a creature of habit. I love my routines. They keep me sane. Circling our side of the ice a few times, I then move into lunges and hip stretches before I start taking some shots with pucks. My body feels good, my skates are sharpened just how I like, my stick is taped to perfection.
And my head is clear of bullshit and ready to fucking play.
After warmups, we head back to the locker room to change into our game jerseys and get some final words from the coach before puck drop. I’ve played with two of the guys on our opposing team before. Their goalie, Meadows, grew up near me and was in the WHL the same time as I was. We’ve always circled one another’s careers. One of their defensemen, Burke, was on the same AHL team as me for a year. It helps knowing how they work, how they play, how they move.
On the bench, I’m sandwiched between Gavin Vaughn and Axel Wallin, both veterans in the league, as we wait for our turn while eagerly watching the play in front of us. Axel is vocal, yelling at anything and everything, as one of our livelier players. Vaughn is more like me, silently taking in the play before us.
“Show us what you got, Rook,” Wallin says as we hop the boards to switch out with the line coming off the ice. Cillian controls the puck at the other end of the ice, giving us plenty of time to position up. As soon as we do, he passes it to Vaughn who skates around a player and heads toward the net being defended by Meadows. Another of their players swerves in to try and snag the puck from Vaughn. The move leaves me wide open.
They may underestimate me as the newest player, but Vaughn doesn’t. He passes it cleanly and the puck lands at the heel of my stick. Burke is there quickly, having anticipated the pass. He’s not the fastest skater, instead he relies on his size. The man is massive and often uses his body to dislodge the puck from players.
He forgets I know him. He hits high. Never aiming for the head but upper body for sure. I, on the other hand, am small in comparison. A handful of inches shorter than his enormous six-seven. When he moves to rush me against the boards, I lunge deep, turning with the puck still on my stick. He side-swipes me some, but the momentum only helps me maneuver around him and get a shot on goal. Meadows blocks it with his left leg, and it bounces just inches in front of the net. Right to where Wallin is waiting for the rebound, elevating the puck just enough to sail into the net under Meadows’s arm.
I just got my first NHL assist.
I’m dazed for a half second until Wallin and Vaughn slam into me, patting me on my helmet.
“Fuck yeah, Fane,” Wallin says. Not Rook, Fane. Damnit, that feels better than just about anything in my life ever has. Skating to the bench, I get variations of the same congratulations from everyone there. Cillian wears a huge smile for us all. Coach, who is notoriously tight-lipped and stoic, lifts his chin and slaps my shoulder.
My chest hitches. With a dad like mine back home, Coach Cole is the father figure I always needed. His small acknowledgment of my accomplishment is all the parental pride I could dream of.
Houston’s team ties it up in the second period and neither of us can land a puck in the net during the third. We immediately head into overtime, and still the score doesn’t change.
Some players love a shoot-out. Some hate them.
Me?
I love them. They excite me like it’s my birthday and I’m about the get the best blow job of my life. There’s little hope Coach will send me in unless we have to go down the whole line of players, but I don’t mind.
“Meadows is weak on his right side. He’ll fall for a fake on the left more often than not,” I say.
“You’re up first, Fane,” Coach says, and I still.
“Seriously?”
“Olly is number two. Wylder, you play clean up. He’ll fall for a fake out on the left, so aim top right,” Coach says, repeating my words and sending me a raised eyebrow. “Go get it, Rook.”
For fucking sure.
Two hours later, I walk into the family room to another round of congratulations. I don’t know most of the people telling me it was a great game, but I accept it all graciously. I scored the game a winning goal, at the top right of the net. Just like Coach told me to.
