The puck drops, and I'm a step behind on everything. My reads are late. My passes are off. I get caught on a zone entry in the first period, and the Ottawa winger blows past me and feeds their center for an easy goal. I skate back to the bench and slam the door shut behind me.
Blake sits down next to me. “Shake it off.”
I can't shake it off. My body is doing what I tell it to do, but there's a delay, a fraction of a second between my brain and my legs that wasn't there a month ago. I'm tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix.
Three weeks of grinding through losses, trying to carry the defensive load while the team searches for its identity, and my body is starting to send me the bill.
Second period, we're better. Cole scores on a redirect that ties it at one. Liam draws a penalty, and we get a power play that generates three good chances, but nothing goes in.
Third period, Ottawa gets a lucky bounce. Their defenseman throws a shot from the point that deflects off two sticks and trickles past our goalie. 2-1 Ottawa. We push hard in the final five minutes. Mercer pulls the goalie. We cycle the puck in their zone for thirty seconds, and Liam fires a one-timer that hits the crossbar and bounces out.
The buzzer sounds. 2-1 final. Four losses in a row.
The locker room afterward is a morgue. Guys shower and change without talking. Mercer says nothing, which is worse than when he yells. He walks through the room once, looks at each of us, and leaves.
Cole stands up. “Sit down. All of you.”
We sit.
“This is it, boys. We're in a playoff race, and we're handing games away. I'm not going to stand here and tell you it's okay because it's not okay. We're not competing. We're not finishing checks. We're not winning the battles that matter. That ends now.”
He looks around the room. “When we get back to New York, we reset. Tuesday practice, I want every man in this room ready to work harder than he's ever worked. We leave everything on the ice from here on out. No coasting. No excuses. We fight for every point, or we go home in April and watch someone else play in the playoffs.”
Nobody speaks. Cole nods and sits down, and that's the end of it.
I shower, change, and sit at my stall for a long time after everyone else has cleared out. My back is throbbing, and my legs are heavy, and I'm exhausted in a way that goes deeper than the physical.
Four losses have drained something out of me.
We fly back to New York tomorrow morning. Practice isn't until Tuesday. I have three days to rest and reset.
I pull out my phone and text Jasmine.We lost. I'm wiped out. What are you doing next weekend?
She replies fast.Whatever you need. How bad was it?
Me: Bad. I played like shit. The whole team did.
Jasmine: I'm sorry, baby. What can I do?
I stare at the screen. The answer comes to me fully formed.I want to go to Maine tomorrow afternoon. Come with me.
Jasmine: I would love to.
My chest loosens for the first time in hours. I text her the details. I'll pick her up at noon. We'll fly up and be there by mid-afternoon.
Pack warm, the coast is cold this time of year.
How are we getting there?She asks.
I'll sort out the flights. Don't worry about it.
I pull out my laptop and book a private charter from Teterboro to a small regional airport thirty minutes from my house in Maine. After the last team flight, I want control over every detail. A small jet, a short flight, a pilot I've used before.
I close my laptop and lean back in my stall and close my eyes. Maine. Nobody in my family has ever been. It’s the one place in the world that belongs entirely to me.
I can’t wait for tomorrow.
The following morning at eleven-thirty,I pull up outside Jasmine's building. The sky is gray, and I'm wearing a heavy sweater under my jacket. I buzz her intercom.
