1
Logan
Nolan is talking shit again.
We're three minutes into the first period, and he's already at it. “Nice fucking pass, bro. My grandmother moves the puck faster than that.”
I'd flip him off, but the refs are watching. Playing against my brother is one of the best parts of this job. I taught him how to handle the puck when he was six. Now he's twenty-five and wearing an NHL jersey.
I was in the stands the night he got drafted, clapping so hard my hands hurt.
I’ve never told him that, but I don’t need to. He knows. Doesn't mean I won't put him through the boards if he cuts through my zone.
“Talk to me when you've got a Cup ring, little brother,” I say.
He laughs and skates back to his bench. The Long Island crowd loves it. They always do when the Shaw brothers go at each other. It's good television, the announcers eat it up, and Nolan plays to the camera better than anyone I know.
I don't play to anything. I just play.
The Runners are fast tonight. Their top line has been cycling the puck in our zone for thirty seconds. I close the gap on their center, pin him against the boards, and strip the puck clean. Blake is already moving up ice. I hit him with a stretch pass, and he carries it into the neutral zone.
No goal. But we reset.
Between periods, Coach Mercer keeps it simple. Stay disciplined. Win the battles along the boards. Stop giving them the middle of the ice. I sit in my stall and retape my stick, listening without looking up.
Second period is where it goes wrong.
Their power play is clicking, and I'm caught cheating to my left when their winger one-times it from the circle. The puck is in the net before I can get my stick down. 2-1 Runners. Shit.
Nolan scores the third goal. He points at me as he skates past the bench. “That one's for you, big brother.”
“Fuck off,” I say.
He blows me a kiss.
We push hard in the third. Cole ties it up, and for a few minutes, the building goes quiet. But with four minutes left, their defenseman walks the blue line and rips one through traffic. 3-2.
The buzzer sounds, and the Long Island crowd erupts, and my brother is at center ice, celebrating with his teammates.
I tap his pads as we shake hands in the line. He grabs my jersey and pulls me close. “Good game. Tell Dad I said hi.”
“Tell him yourself. He's upstairs.”
“Yeah, but he'll be too busy telling you what you did wrong to notice me.”
Dad played defense in college. He played in the AHL for two seasons and got called up to an NHL training camp once, but they cut him before the regular season started. He never got another shot.
He's been watching us play since we could barely stand on skates. He hasn't missed a home game in six years.
Mom's the same way. She played field hockey and lacrosse at UConn. She knows sport. She reads the game as well as any coach I've played for, and she's not shy about sharing her opinions. Between the two of them, we grew up in a house where hockey was the family business.
Nolan's right about the rest of it. Dad will spend the entire dinner telling me what I did wrong. But that's just how he's built.
The drive to my parents' house takes twelve minutes from the arena. I could do it with my eyes closed. I pull onto Maple Street and drive to the end of the block. The house is a red brick with white shutters and a wraparound porch.
Two maple trees frame the front yard, one for each side of the driveway. Mom planted them when we moved in, and now they're taller than the house.
Nolan and Dom’s cars are on the driveway, which means they beat me to it.
