Nah, I don’t have to worry about it. The grin slides back on, and I find lunch.
Practice on Thursday is loose. We run a forecheck drill that I could do in a coma, and a breakout I could do dead, and somewhere in the middle of it, mid-drill, mid-nothing, my eyes go up to the stands.
Row three. Blue-line side. The worst-lit seat in the building.
Empty.
And across the bench, Percy lifts one eyebrow at me.
So I deflect and pull a between-the-legs move on the next rush that serves no purpose except to be the loudest thing in the building, and Fuller blows the whistle and informs me at volume that this is a practice and not a circus, and if I want to join the circus, he’ll write me a recommendation.
I grin at him. “Already got an offer, Coach. Better dental.”
The boys laugh. Percy doesn’t.
My dad calls that evening, and you can hear him before you even answer. That’s the thing about Robert Ermington. The man arrives in a room two seconds ahead of himself.
“There he is! The airplane!”
So he’s heard about it. Someone always tells him. There’s a whole network of people whose entire purpose is reporting my behavior back to my father, and honestly, good for them, it’s a thankless job.
“In my defense,” I say, “it was a great goal.”
“Of course, it was a great goal, you’re my kid.” He’s laughing already. “Pull that stunt in a real game, though, and they’ll put a puck in your ear, you understand me? Save it for when you’ve earned it. Then fly.”
“Noted. I’ll fly responsibly.”
“You won’t. That’s fine.” His voice drops half a register into business. “You know who’s in the stands Friday?”
“I do not.”
“Your guy. The development staff from the club flew in. They want to see what they paid for.” He says it light, but it’s not light. “So. You know. Be the player. Not the airplane.”
“Be the player. Got it. Boring. Continue.”
He laughs again — that’s two — and then, “Your mother says hi. And she says if you don’t call her this weekend, she’s getting on a plane, and you know she’ll do it, she’s already looking at flights, I’ve seen the tabs.”
“Tell her I’ll call. Tell her to close the tabs.”
“Close your tabs, too. Love you, cup.” Easy, the way he ends everything easy. “Bury one for me tomorrow. I’ll be watching from home.”
“Always do, old man.”
I hang up, and I’m smiling as I sit on the edge of my bed. The room’s quiet. Nobody named the pressure — my dad’s too smooth to ever name it — but it got in anyway, the way it alwaysdoes, the legacy, the scout, the club, and the famous easy voice that loves me and expects everything, all of it sitting on my chest at once.
So I get up and go downstairs. I make a joke at Blue that comes out about ten percent too loud for the size of the room, and he gives me a look, and I keep talking until the look goes away.
Benson mentions that he wants me to try out a new hockey stick. It’s a spanking new brand, and he claims it’ll help us win, so I agree to give it a go for the third period on Friday’s game.
Friday, I’m a different animal, and nobody alive has ever seen it.
I’m up before the alarm. I’m always up before the alarm on a gameday. I make two eggs the same way I’ve made them since I was thirteen years old, over hard, no salt until after, and I eat them slowly at the counter while the house still sleeps. I don’t talk. There’s no one to talk to, and I wouldn’t anyway.
I walk to the rink. Same route. The boys drive, but I walk, because the walk is part of the ritual. It’s my last year, so I’m making every moment last. I put in the one playlist I’ve had since I was a kid and don’t skip a single track, not even the ones I’m sick of. The cold doesn’t bother me today. Today it’s just air.
Blue’s already here. He’s too pissed about the fourth-round pick, and I don’t blame him. The kid’s got spunk. I’d love to see him in the first round.
I lay my gear out and tape my stick. I tape it slow, by feel, eyes half shut, and somewhere in the middle of the wrap, my head goes quiet. This only happens twice. One with a roll of tape in my hands, and two, after a puck leaves my blade.
