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Concern tugs at my gut as I rise from the seat I just plopped into. “I hope it’s not about Wes,” I start. But no, he’s on the ice warming up and looks just fine. Shit, maybe Blake…? Nope, he’s skating too.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell my parents.
My stomach churns as I descend the steps toward one of the exits. I spot a security guard and quickly approach him. “Hey,” I say awkwardly. “I’m Jamie Canning? They just said my name on the PA?”
“ID please.”
I hand over my license.
He glances at it before passing it back. The man touches his earpiece and relays something in a voice so low I can’t hear what he’s saying. Then he drops his hand and gives a brisk nod. “Follow me.”
Where? I want to blurt out. But the dude is already marching off without waiting to see if I’m following.
I hurry after him, and my stomach does another queasy flip. This time it’s because I was a gluttonous pig and stuffed myself at dinner, so speedwalking isn’t good for my current state. Too many grasshoppers swimming around in my belly.
To my utter confusion, the guard deposits me at a small office near the visitors’ locker room. When I enter, I find myself looking at Bern Gerlach, the head coach of San Jose. Two other men are also present, but I don’t recognize them.
“Mr. Canning,” Gerlach says, extending a hand. “Bern Gerlach.”
“Um, right. Nice to meet you, sir.”
He introduces the men beside him as an assistant at the GM’s office, and a rep from the league.
“I’m going to cut to the chase because the puck drops in ten minutes,” he says in a no-nonsense tone. “Our goalie’s out and we’re starting his back-up. You’re on the NHL list of emergency goalies—can you suit up for us tonight as Pitti’s back-up?”
I stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
He repeats the request—and yup, it sounds as ludicrous the second time around. I am on the emergency back-up list for the league, but nobody actually ever gets called. Emergency goalies are mythical creatures. Every now and then you hear stories about an accountant who got called up to play one period for New York, or a plumber who suddenly found himself filling in for an injured LA goalie. But those are practically fables, rare situations that allow an everyday Joe to live out his professional athlete dreams.
“Canning?” the head coach prompts. “Can you suit up?”
I snap out of my amazement. “Yes,” I find myself blurting, because who would ever say no? “But don’t you have someone local who can fill in?” Shut up, Jamie. “Like someone from your farm team here?” Seriously, dude, shut up. Don’t give away this wonderful gift.
The GM’s assistant answers in a grim tone. “Our minor league team is on the way back from a game in L.A. The team bus is currently sitting in deadlock traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge. There was a huge pile-up about an hour ago.”
“He won’t make it here in time,” the head coach says flatly. “You’re our best option at the moment. Are you good to go?”
“I’m good to go, sir.”
“Great.” He nods toward the league rep. “Thompson just needs your John Hancock on this waiver, and then I’ll take you to the locker room.”
* * *
I’m wearing the opponent’s jersey. Fuck. Wes is going to kill me.
These are my thoughts as a trainer hustles me down the chute, past the security, and onto the home bench.
None of the San Jose players really glance my way as I sit on the end in the backup goalie’s traditional spot. The league requires that teams dress two goalies for a game, but the chances of me actually playing are slim to none.
The arena is alive with excitement as the two teams get into position. Wes is on the first line, taking the faceoff. I’m dying to stand up and wave at him like a total idiot. Or anyone on Toronto, for that matter. This is like winning the lottery and not being able to share a single dime with the people you love. I want them to get as big of a kick out of this development as I’m getting.
But my husband and his teammates are laser-focused on the game, as they should be. Almost immediately after the faceoff, Pitti is under attack. Toronto takes advantage of the absence of San Jose’s starting goalie.
Pitti is good, though. For eleven minutes, he stops every shot that careens toward him, at one point making a diving save that sends my heart lurching to my throat. I’m not even playing and yet the adrenaline in my blood is high. And the churning of my stomach is even worse now. Nerves and a hundred servings of Mexican food don’t go well together.
But Pitti’s luck runs out when Matt Eriksson unleashes a slapshot that flies into the net, top right corner. Toronto is leading us 1-0—and how cute is it that I’m now referring to it as “us.” I’m not actually a San Jose player. I’m a benchwarmer who’s not going to see a second of ice time because Pitti is killing it.
My job is to sit here, occasionally opening the bench door to accommodate a quick line change. There are backup goalies who spend ninety percent of their time sitting here, opening and shutting this door. And people wonder why I skipped the minors to become a coach.
