Page 1 of Line Change

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NOLAN

Three losses in a row, and Seattle can’t hold a fucking lead. Last night we went into the third period up by three goals and still managed to lose.

Today I can’t make a six-foot pass. If this keeps up, the city should ask for its money back.

The puck hits Bobby Kessler’s left skate instead of his stick. Bobby has played on my line long enough to save it, kicking the puck forward before Caleb can take it. By the time Bobby gets control, the lane has closed and Gunderson is blowing the whistle.

“Again.”

Bobby sends the puck back to me. He’s my closest friend on the team, which means he doesn’t bother pretending that was acceptable. “Tape, Fraser. Aim for the flat part in the middle.”

“I wanted to make sure you were awake.”

“I’m awake. You suck.”

Normally, that gets something better out of me. Today I make a face and skate back into position. He lets me go without another word, and that’s almost as bad as the pass.

Last night’s third period has been playing in my head since the final horn. The first goal starts with a puck I should’ve cleared. On the last one, I chase the wrong guy below the circle and leave the back door open. Other guys made mistakes too, but knowing that doesn’t get mine out of my head.

The team needed me to help stop the slide. I didn’t. The whole city watched us piss away a game we’d already won, and afterward I sat in my stall with my skates on until the room was nearly empty. Mostly, I’m pissed at myself. I’ve played bad games before. I don’t usually bring them to the rink the next morning and let them play the next one for me.

I take the next rep with the puck on my forehand. Caleb gives me the middle, so I cut inside and shoot before he can take it away. The puck misses the net and hits the end boards.

Gunderson looks at me. I look up at the scoreboard even though it’s dark.

“Wasn’t the net,” Anton calls from his crease.

“Useful, thanks.”

“I’m here for you.”

I get back in line, pulling at the cuff of my glove because it feels wrong. The knob at the top of my stick feels wrong too. If I retape it, I’ll only have fresh tape on the same hands, so I leave it alone.

On the next rep, I force a pass through Caleb when the safe play is back to the point. His stick knocks it away without much effort.

“Again,” Gunderson says.

He doesn’t yell. I wish he would.

This is how somebody gets dropped down a line. A coach gives him time to play his way out of a slump, then another winger starts getting his minutes. There are plenty of guys in this building who would take mine and remember how to hit a stick from six feet away.

Or maybe I go all the way to the AHL and spend the winter teaching our prospects everything I’ve learned about blowing a lead. They’re not sending me down. I know that. I’m twenty-eight and an actual top-six player when my head isn’t jammed this far up my ass. I can still picture the call telling me to pack.

At this rate, Seattle should save money and start a pee-wee team. The kids might know how to backcheck.

Gunderson changes the drill. Usually, it takes two whistles to get everybody into new groups because Bobby is talking and Anton is encouraging him. Today the first whistle is enough.

The quiet has been getting worse all morning. Nobody laughs off a bad pass. Guys stay in battles after the puck is gone, and when a stick catches someone across the gloves, the shove that comes back is hard enough to stop the drill.

“Settle down,” Gunderson says. The next group goes harder.

From where I’m waiting, I can see every guy trying to fix the last three losses by winning one practice rep. Two white jerseys chase the same loose puck into the corner. They clip each other, start swearing, and barely get separated before the puck comes back around. The whole team is about to combust.

I’m on the outside of the next rep when a sharp yelp cuts across the rink. Not a shout or a curse. A real sound of pain.

There’s a pile of bodies against the far boards, and Sindre Haugen is underneath it. One evergreen glove is pressed flat to the ice. His stick lies several feet away.