We lose.
For once they don’t pick me for media availability, and for the first time in a week, I have to shower with the team. There’s an insistent knot of nerves in the pit of my stomach, but I soldier through and resign myself to reacting however I see fit if anyone starts shit.
No one does, though the fact that I’m stupidly vigilant and the intense and uncomfortable vulnerability I feel is something I never want to experience again.
It feels disgusting and more wrong than anything ever has before. It’s humiliating even though no one knows, no one speaks.
I get through it as fast as I can and force myself not to run out of the locker room, but to walk at a normal pace.
I sit at the back of the bus, put my headphones on, and call Eli.
He knows everything that’s been happening, of course. I called him the first night I stayed at Dad’s and convinced him to swear he wouldn’t tell Mom or Michael.
He hasn’t, because as his nickname indicates, he’s too good for this world. He’s also slowed down a lot on posting since almost everything people have talked about regarding me online isn’t something he can organically use to change our narrative.
At least not without letting the whole world know what my reality is. And though he hates it, he understands why we can’t say anything publicly right now.
Three days later, we lose again, falling to Carolina 4–2 and when they call my name for media, I simply say no and keep walking.
Hockey is a team sport, but no matter how good I am, I’m not about to give politically correct answers to a room full of reporters and come even close to admitting I’m part of the problem.
I am... now, but I’m done being a team player.
December 22nd
“Don’t bother coming back out unless you plan to win some games for us!” Coach Rocco screams inside the DC visiting locker room.
His anger does nothing to me.
His threats mean nothing.
I’m pretty sure he knows I’ve asked for a trade already because management told Patrick they needed his input before they chose which offer to take for me.
Patrick agreed, but nothing had changed until today. My guess is Rocco is now under fire, and there’s no way I’ll ever feel bad about it.
“I’m happy to stay here. You’re the one who refused to build a full team, and expected me to win on my own.”
He reels back from where he was trying to loom threateningly over me—clearly he didn’t expect me to talk back, and I would never normally do that to a coach, yet here we are.
“You literally just saidIneed to win some games. Do you knowanythingabout hockey? Areyou, one of thirty people in the world who coaches an NHL team, really that unaware that it’s a team sport?” I shake my head at him and don’t bother hiding how unimpressed I am by him. “You dug yourself into this hole, now you deal with the consequences.”
Since I’m sitting, I can see just how hairy his nostrils are when they flare with every breath.
I can tell he wants to shout more, that he probably wants to threaten me and maybe even punch me, just by the way his jaw flexes and twitches, but somehow he finds some common sense and turns to the rest of the room.
“Drink some fucking water. I expect better of all of you in the second period.”
Look at that, he remembered I’m not the only one here.
Once he’s gone, I can feel dozens of eyes on me, but I don’t meet their gazes. I stare straight ahead, at the space between Ewing and Girard’s heads, and wait for the break to be over and for all of them to leave.
When they do, I get my phone out of my duffel and see a text from Patrick just came in seconds ago. The transmission of the game must be back on.
Patrick:
Are you hurt?
I’m reminded yet again of how lucky I am that my cousins found Cindy and that she did Patrick the favor of marrying him.
