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When they’re all seated and rehydrated I clap my hands together. And I keep my voice even as I talk us through the game up until now. None of them are smiling, there’s none of the energy in the room there would be if they were winning, but at least they’re listening to me.
“You’re better than this,” I tell them. “Every single one of you.” Sorry Max. “I need you to go back on that ice and be ready to win. The puck is yours for the taking, so take it. Be aware of who is around you. Pass when you see a break.”
We talk about the plays we’ve practiced. I tell them who’ll be on the ice after intermission.
“I’m coming onto the ice, too,” I say, because I can do it for twenty minutes. I need to. I might be here primarily as the coach, but the AHL rules allow me to play, and my doctor has cleared me for twenty minutes of active play a week.
Watching them from behind the bench has been excruciating. My mind may have accepted the fact that I’m semi-retired, but my body wants to be on the ice.
My voice is hoarse from shouting at them.
“But I can’t do this on my own,” I tell them. “Not least because I’m old and slow.”
They laugh but it’s true. The AHL is mostly a young man’s league. I’m forty years old. Past retirement age, even if I was firing on all cylinders.
“Are you with me?” I ask them.
“Yes Coach!”
And that’s all it takes for the mood in the room to swing. They’re nodding and talking to each other, as though they’re actually realizing they’re a team and need each other’s help. I check my watch. We have seven minutes left.
“Five minutes,” I say. “Conserve your energy, do what you need to do, and then let’s get back on the ice and win this damn thing.”
When the intermission ends, we head back out. The Zamboni has cleared up any evidence of the game so far, and as soon as my skates hit the surface it feels like I’ve come home. My blades are sharp, my stick is taped exactly the way I like it, and I can feel the rush of cool air come through the grill of my helmet. I take my place on the right wing and nod to Goran who’s facing off against the opposition, his stick poised and ready.
Then the puck drops and blood rushes through my ears as the third period begins.
Nothing else matters but the puck and the goal. I glide across the ice, my mind calculating which team member is where, who is attacking, who is defending. It takes a millisecond because hockey is all about reactions. There’s no time to take a breath, to look around and strategize.
My body knows what to do. It always has. And when I get the puck it feels like I’m complete. I head down the right wing and pass, the puck locking onto Carter’s stick.
He’s in front of the goal. I hold my breath.
And he slams it into the net.
Roars fill the air from the half-full arena. Carter lifts his stick in the air and promptly gets sent off the ice. He skates over and climbs off, replaced by Dubois, who vaults the wall and slides easily over to the center forward position.
We’re two minutes away from the end of the period when Carter is allowed back on. He high fives Dubois and nods at me and I nod back at him.
We’re down 2-1 and it’s pretty much a done deal. But at least we scored. The whole team has lifted its game this period. The defense has worked so hard that Max looks almost bored in front of the goal posts. The game has been mostly at our end, but their goalie is good and he’s warded off every attempt on goal since Carter’s.
In the corner of my eye, I see the clock counting down. Carter has the puck and he’s weaving it around the opposition’s players, looking more like he’s dancing than playing hockey.
And then, without even taking a breath, he slams the puck right into the center of the goal, and for a moment the whole stadium is silent before they realize that he’s done it again.
2-2. We’re tied. Which means overtime. And this time Carter keeps his damn stick down as he basks in the sound of the crowd’s adulation.
As I glide across the ice to congratulate him, my gaze lifts to the staff box. And I see Mackenzie there, watching us.
CHAPTERSEVEN
MACKENZIE
Dad officially retired from the NHL when I was twelve-years-old, but I still have vivid memories of him coming home after a defeat. My brothers would be fast asleep in bed, and my mom would usher Isabella and me to our bedrooms, waving off our protests that we wanted to see our dad before we went to bed.
You could always tell when he got home. The sound of the engine on his sleek Ferrari would echo as he pulled into the driveway and then the garage door would whirr. It could take him any time from a minute to an hour to walk through the connecting door into the kitchen.
And my mom would just wait. For as long as it took.
