Chapter 3
Ryan checked the time on his phone again before dropping it on the nightstand. 5:30 a.m. He had now been up for an hour and nothing had changed.
Some days he would have a few beers and pass out until at least ten in the morning. Some days he would try to get some normal sleep and then wake up in the middle of the night and lie there in the dark for hours. Either way, he was trying to forget what happened and never could.
He didn't know why he was taking the end of this particular season so hard. There were plenty of heartbreaking losses over the years. That's just what happens when you're a hockey player for most of your life. But there was something about the way it ended this year that he couldn't let go of.
The Pirates had won the championship the year before Ryan got there and were poised to do it again. But the real question was when. There were so many chances and so many opportunities. In his rookie year, they got bumped out of the playoffs and sure, he took it hard. He went home and tended to his wounds and let his mom make his favorite foods that always comforted him.
But this season? This season ended in a mess. It was home ice, Game 7 in the series. Whoever won it was going to move on to the championship round, and the Pirates were so close. Except it didn't start off well when the team's captain, Jordan King, tweaked his knee in the first period. They still soldiered on, keeping it close against the Chicago Generals with the score tied 1-1 going into the third period.
Then all hell broke loose.
Pirates goalie Matt Jackson let a shot get past him into the net even though there was blatant goalie interference that the refs didn't call. So Alex Orlov, the team's tough guy, decided he needed to do something about that. And if Alex was going to do something about it, then Ryan, his fellow defenseman, would have to follow along. They had each other's backs and were next to each other when things started to go south.
Which is why they were next to each other in the penalty box for a pair of five-minute majors for fighting. Ryan was seething as he sat there, the nervous energy pulsing through him. The Generals definitely deserved what they got. You don't mess with your opponent's goalie in a Game 7 match-up and think you can get away with it.
But Ryan should've known better. Same with Alex. As he sat there, stick tapping, watching the whole game unfold in front of him on the other side of the plexiglass, Ryan's only solace was that Chicago had two of their best guys in the penalty box as well. All was fair, all was even, and when Ryan got out of that box, all would be forgotten. There would still be a game to play that the Pirates needed to tie up if they had any shot of moving on.
Ryan broke out of the box at breakneck speed, jumped into the play as it passed him, and slapped a hard one-timer from his teammate Sam Martin towards Chicago's goalie.
He heard it ping off the crossbar.
Alex was right on the other side, ready for the rebounding puck, and took his own shot at it. Another ping off the crossbar.
This time, the goalie covered it to stop play and force a face-off. Ryan looked up at the clock. There were only five seconds left in the game. There was still a chance.
But that chance never materialized. Five seconds with no real chances before the horn sounded. The game was over. Chicago was moving on with a 2-1 win and the Pirates were starting their summer vacation.
Ryan remembered shaking the other players' hands, something that was always done at the end of each series whether you won or lost. It was tradition and sportsmanship. But if you were the losing team, it always sucked.
He also remembered gathering with his teammates at center ice, raising his stick to salute the fans who supported them through the season. From the outside, people view Detroit as a rundown Midwest city whose best days were way behind it. But Ryan knew this place had gems that were loved by the people here and anyone who gave this city a chance. It wasn't flashy like New York or L.A., but it was real, and the Detroit fans were real too. They welcomed him with open arms. Guys would buy him beer at the bars. Women would give him their phone numbers. There was a local elderly woman who hand-knit toques for each player on the team every year.
They loved him and he loved them. He played his heart out every night to get that cheer that only came from a Detroit crowd.
The cheer that final night of the season was still amazing, but it was tinged with heartbreak. Walking back into the locker room with his gear on for the last time that season felt heavier than the year before. He was so close — so close! — and still came up short.
Ryan checked the time on his phone on the nightstand again. 5:45. Still wide awake. Still hearing the "ping" in his head as that puck bounced off the goalpost.
He sighed loudly and gave up, tossing his covers off, and shuffling into the kitchen to see what was in the fridge. Luckily, it was stocked more than it had been twenty-four hours ago. Lucy's trip yesterday to the grocery store had finally motivated him to make a list and go himself. The store was open until midnight so he went in shortly before closing with a black baseball cap on and rushed through the aisles, quickly picking up whatever he needed before moving on. No one recognized him and for that, he was thankful. He couldn't deal with people asking for a selfie or an autograph or something right now.
He made sure he pulled his truck in far enough that he wouldn't block Lucy again if she had to leave the next morning. And just in case, he left a pair of track pants by his front door if any early morning visitors showed up again.
He stared into the glaring light of the fridge, trying to find something to eat. Fruit, some healthy kale drinks, hummus for the pita chips in his cupboard. Then his eyes landed on the pink box on the second shelf. Donuts. He ate one yesterday morning after bringing them back from Lucy's place. When he realized he didn't feel any guilt about eating it, he chowed down on three more. But Lucy gave him almost a dozen of them. There were still plenty left in the box.
He opened the lid and his eyes landed on a donut with sprinkles on it like the one Lucy had picked out of the box yesterday for herself. He gently pulled it out, shut the fridge and walked over to sit on the couch in the great room.
The cabin had huge windows that looked out to Harbor Lake and this morning, Ryan could see the sun just starting to glisten on the surface of the water. It was going to be another beautiful day, or as beautiful as it could be considering the funk he was in. But then again, the whole reason he was here and not home in Winnipeg or down in Detroit was to get his head back on straight. It wasn't a bad thing to enjoy the beauty of where he was.
He took a bite of his donut, its sweetness making him audible moan. He would have to thank Lucy for getting these for him. She was right. He stuck to a strict diet during the season and donuts were rarely on it no matter how much he wanted them.
But Lucy also remembered that he wanted them. Sure, they were friends, or maybe more like friends by association. Lucy was best friends with Sydney, and there were plenty of times when they would be around each other for any number of reasons. They would watch television at Sydney's place or he would invite her to his condo when he had people over for beers.
Lucy would ask Ryan for tickets on occasion for her and Sydney and he would always try to oblige. It was kind of normal for a hockey player to be asked — everyone wanted a free ticket. But Lucy was one of the few people he would actually help out. He also would try to get her a parking pass and knew she liked eating nachos from the concession stand for some reason so he would occasionally throw in a few food vouchers.
He didn't do that for most people, but he did it for Lucy. So what? It worked out in his favor in the end. Two seasons of free tickets turned into almost a dozen donuts in his fridge. Sugary-sweet and melt-in-your-mouth donuts from Lucy.
He bit into his donut again and got some of the extra frosting on his upper lip. He wiped it off with his finger, sucking the sugar off it, and thinking of her. Ryan's boxer briefs started to feel tighter. He closed his eyes, his breath hitching in his chest. This was nothing. It was the morning and he was letting his guard down and finally feeling good because he was eating a donut.
