“Hey, Mom? I should let you go. Practice is early tomorrow.”
“Okay, sweetie! Just let me know if your plans change, and you have time to come home! We all miss you!”
Sure you do. “Thanks, Mom. Later.”
After we hang up, I take a slow breath. I don’t want to go home to Maine, anyway. My life is here. I have hockey, and…
I think of Sportsballs and my favorite barstool. Forest’s stern face, and his solid forearms. And the truth hits me in the chest like a slap shot—I can’t ever go back to Sportsballs again. Not after what happened tonight.
Fuckity fuck.
How did this happen?
Three
Unknown Caller
Beck
I spend the next night on the bench, watching Henderson, our starting goalie, save forty pucks and seal our team’s 3-2 victory over Ontario. What am I even doing? I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve become one of those players who never lived up to his potential.
It wasn’t always like this. At eighteen, I was a high-draft pick for Columbus. In college, I was a Frozen Four winner and All-American my junior year. I thought I’d pay my dues in the minors for a couple years and then trade up to a starting spot on an original six team.
Nothing went according to plan, even in the minors. First, Columbus sent me to their AHL team, where I promptly got my ass kicked. For three years. Then, they finally got sick of me and failed to renew my contract.
But my stats had improved a little by the end, and Colorado picked me up. It felt like a fresh start, and last season I did some good work, only to slump again this year.
Seven years after getting my draft photo in Sports Illustrated, my agent barely remembers my name. I make seventy thousand dollars a year, but my rent is high, my gear costs about six grand a year, and I eat enough organic groceries a week to feed a family of four.
And I don’t have a backup plan. Or, well, a life. I spend a lot of time on this bench watching our other goalie play. Then I go home alone.
The buzzer finally sounds, ending the game, and I let out a cheer as a reflex. Go team.
Showering is sort of pointless, but I do it anyway. I’m throwing clothes onto my still-damp body when my roommate, Beau “Big Rig” Riggins, asks me if I’m going to the pub with the rest of them.
“Nah, Rigsy, kinda tired,” I grumble.
“Dude. Laaaaame.”
“Yeah, yeah.” At least he didn’t say, “That’s gay,” which I’ve heard him say before. Only once, but still.
On my way across the frozen parking lot, my phone rings. I take it from my pocket and give it a look. Unknown caller.
Forest?
Hell. I want to kick myself for that thought. Everybody knows that unknown callers are always a scam.
The phone rings again, and I’m not that strong, I guess, because I answer the damn thing. “Yeah? Is this about one of those extended warranties? I don’t buy those. But I would if you insured goalie sticks. You ever see how fast a composite stick snaps? Like it’s made of spaghetti.”
“Hello?” says a male voice. “Is this the kid from the bar last night?”
My heart detonates. “Um, maybe? Depends on who this is.”
A chuckle. “This is Scully, I’m friends with?—”
“Forest,” I grunt.
“Right,” he says brightly. “You gave us this number.”
