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“I love you, too.” I whisper, before following him into sleep.
Nigel
The locker room is dead silent. Beside me, Troy’s leg is bouncing enough to jar mine, but I don’t bother telling him to stop. It’s game seven in the third round of the Stanley Cup play-offs, and whoever wins tonight will be advancing to the final round. We have home ice advantage, but you wouldn’t know it by the tension in the room. Losing Lawson during the second period of the last game due to injury had shaken everyone enough that we were handed our worse loss of the playoffs.
Across from me, Simmons has his forearms resting on his thighs and his head hanging low. He could be praying or performing some pre-game goalie ritual, but if I had to bet I’d say he’s reliving every goal he let in after Lawson was pulled.Not your fault, I think; we were all to blame for our shitty performance, and tonight is our chance to right it. When the time comes for us to head down the chute and onto the ice, it feels both too soon and like we’ve been waiting for hours.
The roar of the crowd is nearly deafening when the teams take the ice; it’s a sea of blue, with South Carolina support strong on home ice. Scattered about is the black and yellow of the opposing team—the west coast fans who made the journey. I look over at Corwin, always cognizant of where he is and his gaze meets mine. Troy is still beside me and I pat a gloved hand on his head without breaking eye contact with Corwin.
“Let’s kick their ass.” I tell Troy, who smiles swiftly, before turning in a circle and scanning the crowd. Somewhere up there is Sam and his parents.
From the moment the puck drops, the game is ruthless. Both our offense and defense are putting up a near-perfect show, even without our starting goalie. By the end of the second, the score is tied at two where it has remained unchanged for the entirety of the period. The start of the third has both teams fighting mercilessly for the advantage, and with five minutes left on the clock, we finally get it.
It’s Monroe who earns the assist—sending the puck to Troy who immediately taps it back before moving into position and taking a return pass. When he puts it into the back of the net through the five-hole, the stadium damn near explodes as the lamp lights up and the fans go wild. We don’t celebrate for long, every single person hyperaware of the fact that five minutes remain and a one-point lead is hardly a lead at all.
My line is on the bench when they score, Simmons misreading the opposing forward and covering the wrong side of the net. Looking up, I see the clock sitting at just over a minute; Coach sends us back in even though we just came off of a nearly two-minute shift, and Corwin skates forward to face-off. The referee tosses him, so I move in and take the drop. I lose, but Troy somehow ends up with the puck and we rush the opposing net.
In the end, it’s Corwin who turns it over, giving the other team a breakaway chance. Simmons hugs the outer edge of the crease, defending our zone alone as the rest of us sprint down the ice in pursuit. I know the crowd must be roaring, but I can’t hear anything over the rushing in my ears as I watch the puck sail over Simmons’ outstretched glove and into the net. He couldn’t have missed it by more than a hair.
When the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game, I immediately look for Corwin. He’s holding his stick in both gloved hands, head tipped back as though he’s going to scream his frustration.We were so fucking close. Troy is immobile, bent forward at the waist and looking like he might puke. When he stands up, he reaches under his visor to wipe a hand over his sweaty face, eyes red.
Throat tight, I watch as Corwin signals for everyone to raise our sticks in a salute to the crowd, a silent thank you for the support.
If I had thought the locker room was quiet before, it’s nothing compared to now. The disappointment is so thick in the air, you could almost cut it with a knife. Simmons is half undressed, seated in front of his stall with his head tipped back against the wall, tears unabashedly streaked down his face. Next to me, Troy is stripping down and tossing his gear so forcefully into his stall, several pieces bounce onto the floor. I sit there, staring at an elbow pad that landed near my feet, and try to muster the strength to take off my own gear.
I feel like an uncomfortable something is sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’ve had a long career, and this is by no means my first disappointing loss. It feels different, though; I feel like I’m seated at a funeral, not in a locker room. It dawns on me, suddenly, that this is how I imagine it feels after you play yourlastgame.
Discomfited, I search for Corwin, eyes scanning the dour faces of my teammates until I find the one I’m looking for. He’s facing away from me, pulling his sweater over his head and leaving his sweaty hair a mess. I can’t see his face, but there’s no need. The straight line of his spine and rigid set of his shoulders tell me everything I need to know.It’s not your fault, either, I tell him silently, willing him to turn around. He doesn’t.
???
“Your phone is ringing.” Sam tells me, balancing two plates of food as he makes his way gingerly to where Troy is seated at the fire next to Corwin. Changing direction, I head back inside where I find two missed calls from my agent. As I stare at the notifications, another call comes through; I answer, stepping out the front door and closing it gently behind me.
“Jack, sorry I missed your calls.” I greet him, and take a seat on the front step of our porch.Is it too late to pray for good news?
“Hey buddy, bad news.”
Jesus fucking Christ. “Hit me.”
“South Carolina won’t play ball, and not a single East Coast team is in the market for a veteran forward. It’s L.A. or nothing, so I’ve emailed you the contract to look over—”
“No, Jack, I already said no to L.A.” Frustration bleeds into my tone as my heart sinks into my stomach.
“You said no to L.A. without reading the damn contract. No movement clause and you’ll be there until you retire, guaranteed. They’re doing a complete rebuild, and they want you for center.”
I pull the phone away from my ear. Jack’s still talking, but I’ve heard enough. I had known, when no extension was offered in the previous few months, that South Carolina was going to be a hard no. But I had foolishly hoped that I could at least remainclose; perhaps go back to Florida, my old stomping grounds. California might as well be on the other side of the fucking world.
“Are you even listening to me?” Jack asks, annoyed. I bring the phone back to my ear.
“No.”
He sighs, heavily. I don’t envy him his job. “This isn’t a good contract, St. James, it’s a great one. This is what we’ve been looking for your entire NHL career.”
“Did you tell South Carolina I’d take less money?”
“You are the only bastard who has ever told me to ask for that, you know that, right?Yes, I told them you’d take a pay cut. Every revision I sent was denied.” He’s silent for a minute, determining the best course of action to let me down easy. “Listen, I told you last year that this was likely a one and done season and you were fine with it.”
“Things have changed since last year.” I remind him. An SUV pulls into Corwin’s driveway, and Lawson waves at me as he gets out of the driver’s side. I return the gesture halfheartedly.
