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Best Thing in the World
Rust
A week later.
“FUCKIN’ RIGHT, BOYS!”
The visitor’s locker room in Minnesota was a party. With Game 6 in the books, we’d eliminated the Minnesota Extreme, and we were moving on to the second round of the playoffs. We tore off our gear, everyone joking and laughing and dancing to our victory song, piped out of a shitty set of Bluetooth speakers.
Everyone but me, that is. I took my gear off in silence, my gaze trained on the floor.
Dakota poked and prodded at me, trying to get a reaction. “Damn, Rusty! Wewon,man! Aren’t you happy?”
By all means, Ishould’vebeen happy. The whole team rebounded after our horrendous Game 1 effort—but no one rebounded like me. I’d played the best hockey of my life over the past week, carrying the team to victory.
Only one round of the playoffs had been played, but the media pundits had already pegged me as an early front-runner for the Conn Smythe Trophy—the MVP of the playoffs. Talk like that was premature. Three more rounds had yet to be played.
But the truth was, I wasn’t happy. I felt miserable. I had a rotten hole in my heart. Who cared how I played? To me, it didn’t matter. It was just a stupid fucking game—one I happened to be good at. I didn’t deserve any praise whatsoever.
The door flung open, and Killer burst into the visitor’s locker room with a cocky swagger and a smug grin. “Nowthat’swhat I all a character game!” Killer roared. He pointed me out. “Walker, BABY!”
The boys turned to me and cheered. Sure, I’d scored the game winner with a seeing-eye slapper through traffic. But it didn’t change a thing. I still felt like shit.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!”the boys chanted, putting me in the spotlight.
I stood, staring out at the men who looked up at me, who trusted me to lead them into battle. What the fuck for? I didn’t have anything to teach them. I was a washed up loser. I’d failed at life. Only thing I was good at in life was hockey. But what would I do after this? Would anyone care about me?
All those big eyes and smiling faces patiently expected me to saysomething.
“That’s one down,” I croaked at last. “Three more to go.”
The boys exploded in a raucous cheer. I could’ve saidanythingand they would’ve cheered. Didn’t matter.
Ever since Isabelle and I broke things off, hockey didn’t matter to me at all. Yeah, I played well, but what was the fucking point? What was I leaving behind? What was mylegacy?Who cares about goals or assists or Corsi ratings or hell, Stanley Cups, when you’ve got no one to share it with?
“Great work tonight, boys! Way to finish ’em off!” Killer yelled, concluding his post-game speech with a vigorous fist pump. “Now let’s fly home! You earned the day off tomorrow—after that, it’s back to work, so we can get ready for the second round!”
The boys let out one more raucous cheer.
The party continued as we showered up. Back in the room, we threw on our suits and filtered out of the room, one by one, to the team bus. I stayed behind at my stall, staring at my cell phone, wishing I had some way of talking to Isabelle.
None of my texts went through. When I called her, I was treated to an automated message informing me that my number had been blocked.
Blocked.
I’d even tried to reach her by calling her friend’s number. ButAprilhad blocked me, too.
It was clear Isabelle didn’t want anything to do with me. Because she knew what these guys didn’t: I was trash. A selfish person. Someone who’d undeniably made mistakes of his own, yet had a hard time forgiving others for their mistakes.
The few stragglers finished dressing, grabbed their bags and headed for the bus, until only two players remained in the room: me and Tank.
I didn’t get on the bus because I felt like it didn’t matter. I had nowhere to be. I didn’t matter to anybody in the world until the puck dropped to start Round 2.
That was the difference between me and Tank. He was waiting for someone: his son.
The locker room door opened and Tank’s seven-year-old son, Nash, ran in. “Dad!” Nash lived in Minnesota with his mom, Tank’s ex. She and Tank had split up shortly after Nash was born. Tank was one of those guys I was telling Johnny about, who had made the league despite having a kid to support.
Tank’s face lit. “Hey, buddy! There you are!” He squatted down and embraced Nash in a hug.
