Page 76 of The Do-Over Girl

NASH

The locker room is louder and more raucous than the APA team locker room before a game, more raucous than I ever remember it being when we were all back in the NHL. Probably because we don’t give a fuck who wins. Both teams share the same locker room. We’re all in it to raise money for APA, right? That, and for a good time.

Just about everyone knows old Smitty and greets him warmly when he arrives. No one tells him to put out his cigar. He even shakes hands with Spence Logan, though they’d been rivals for the same coaching job with the Portsmouth Whalers.

In fact, the mood is so jovial that I’m going to need PT if another guy slaps me on the back.

“Remember the time Nash snuck a woman into the locker room when we were in Montreal?” Evanowski, who has to be fifty by now, asks the room at large. I wince, but only a little.

“We were all young and foolish once,” I say as if I’m over that stage now.

I get a few raised brows calling me on that, but mostly, I get laughs and nods.

After we’re all dressed and my skates are laced, my stick taped, and my adrenaline through the roof, we line up just inside the locker room door. We all know the drill. A shot of nerves—likely excess adrenaline—shakes my gut. Archie and Smitty are talking and laughing and getting along when Archie’s alarm buzzes, and he blows his whistle.

“Time to file onto the ice,” he shouts. “Remember, take it easy. You’re not twenty-one anymore.”

He takes a lot of shit for that comment as the men file past him, and he laughs, loving it.

The minute we step outside the locker room, the flashing lights start, and the crowd noise and excitement rises. The crowd's energy slams into me like a hurricane, lifting me and spinning my head. Media types line the small tunnel, mobbing us, shouting questions, mostly asking our reasons for being here.

Some of the guys answer good-naturedly. O’Rourke says it’s because I asked him to and because if I say it’s a good cause, it must be. Others agree. Following behind him, keeping my head down, I thump O’Rourke on the back in thanks.

Emotions rise and overwhelm me with gratefulness, the kind that takes a person by surprise. But as soon as my skates hit the ice, my head and heart clear because I’m home again after too long, about to play a hockey game with my team.

The cheers from the crowd are gratifying, and if I squint hard and use some imagination, the old APA arena might resemble an NHL rink, but it doesn’t matter because I get to play for real—or sort of for real. Because even though we’re a bunch of competitive guys and we automatically always want to win, there’s no real edge to this game, no consequences for a win or loss. It’s all for bragging rights, ego, and the satisfaction of that deep-down instinct that dictates that we must win.

Circling around, I check out the stands for Kali and find her in her usual seat to the right and back from the home bench, my bench tonight with the East team. Then, as my eyes slide over Nikki and past the end of the row, I nearly trip on my own skates.

What the fuck is she doing here?That’s my ex sitting there, unmistakable, casually watching the warm-ups, and when she notices me staring at her, she waves. Fuck. My gaze darts back to Kali, but she’s in a tight conversation with Nikki. Archie yells at me from the bench.

“This is a warm-up, Nash. That means you need to move. Or are you out of breath already?”

I mouth fuck you to him because I can’t give him the finger with my gloves on, and it’s just as well since I’m still a coach, still responsible for my team, and still working on setting a good example. Cutting back on my swearing has been the most challenging part, I won’t lie. With my head still on a euphoric trip like I’m replaying old times, the whistle blows and warm-ups end.

It’s game time.

At the end of the first period, we don’t return to the locker room, taking water and re-lacing our skates on the bench. We’re ahead four to one, and Archie is worried about a lop-sided score.

“This is supposed to be fun, so maybe we can slow it down.” The guys grumble.

Still, he’s not wrong.

“How about one more goal?” I say. There’s a chorus of agreement. “Unless they get within two goals, then all bets are off.”

“Deal,” Archie says. Now, the competition is to see who scores the next goal. I already got mine, so I agree to pass the puck off to Spencer every chance I get.

When we get back out on the ice, the West team isn’t as cheery as we are, and as soon as we go on the offensive in their zone to get our goal, bodies fly. The refs aren’t sure what to do, so they look at each other and swallow their whistles. Spencer manages a shot when I feed him from the corner, barely evading a check into the boards, but it deflects over the glass and out of play.

“Fuck’s up with that?” I shout at Tamorind, the defenseman from the West, as we line up for the face-off. I’m taking the puck drop, and he stares me down without answering. I never played with him, but he’d been a decent player back in the day. Now, he’s overweight, though he claims it’s all muscle. I don’t want to find out the hard way if it is or isn’t.

The crowd buzzes, and I slide my eyes to Spencer, letting him know I’m damned well going to win this face-off and get the puck to him. He has a wicked wrist shot. If he can outmuscle Tamorind, who’s already trying to muscle him off his spot, he’ll get his goal.

The puck drops, and blood roars in my ears as time slows down like it used to when the games meant something. I snap my stick and flip the puck in Spencer’s direction. He scoops it and spins around, untouched because Tamorind is coming at me. I head for the corner of the net in case we need a tip-in, the way I’ve done a million times in too many games to remember since I was six years old.

But this time, as I reach my spot outside of the crease, I don’t stop, which makes no sense because I put the breaks on. It takes a beat for the hit to register, and then it does as the full body cross-check to my back drives me into the pipes. I twist to protect my head and hit my shoulder instead. My bad shoulder.

The flash of excruciating pain is all I remember, and then I black out, or I must have, because I find myself flat on the ice, wrapped around a corner of the net with my teammates surrounding me and Archie calling my name.