by Shen, L. J.
Wes
“Errrrannnghhhh. Arrrmmmhhh.”
“Babe? You okay down there?” I call down the crowded table.
“Ohhhhrrrgh,” is Jamie’s answer.
Depending on the context, the noises my husband are making might alarm me. But one look at his blissed-out face tells the whole story. We’re at an Oaxacan restaurant in the center of San Jose, with several of my teammates. Since it’s game day, everyone is eating lightly.
Everyone except Jamie. He’s in pig heaven right now. Literally. He’s eating homemade tortillas spread with pork cracklings and bean puree and fresh guacamole. A pile of calamari is waiting its turn in front of him.
And we’ve only gotten to the appetizers.
“There’s no place like home,” Jamie says through a mouthful. “There’s no place like home.”
“Don’t forget to click your heels together,” Matt Eriksson cracks.
“I don’t have to,” Jamie mumbles, taking a sip of beer. “I’m already here. There’s nothing as good as California Mexican food. Nothing.”
“I’ll bet the people serving Mexican food in Mexico might take issue with that,” Eriksson points out.
Jamie shakes his blond head. “It might be as good. But it can’t be better. Seriously. I’m never eating Mexican in Toronto again. There’s no point.”
“Are you harshing on Canada?” Blake Riley gasps.
“Maybe a little,” Jamie admits. “But come on. California is heaven. I went surfing with my dad at dawn. And now there’s a party in my mouth.”
“This really is the best guacamole I’ve had in my entire adult life,” Lemming agrees, reaching for another chip.
I take a sip of the soda I ordered, because nobody drinks before a game. I’m feeling pretty good about myself tonight, and all because I cheered up my guy. Jamie is like a sturdy plant—happy under most conditions, but occasionally in need of some extra sunshine. A trip to California almost always does the trick.
Also blow jobs.
“Excuse me, miss?” Blake says, stopping a tall waitress in a short dress.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Possibly. But I have a question. The menu says ‘chapulines’ are sautéed grasshoppers. But what are they really?”
The waitress smirks. “Exactly what it says, big guy. Grasshoppers are crunchy and delicious. We flavor them with garlic and lime. Are you ready to try some?”
“Uh…” My teammate blinks.
Jamie raises his hand into the air. “I will. Even if he won’t. Some of us aren’t scared.”
There’s a rumble of laughter at the table. “So will I,” Eriksson says, throwing down, too. “Blake might not be able to handle it, but I’m game.”
“Dude,” Blake threatens. “Don’t give me that macho bullshit. You’re afraid of heights.”
“You’re afraid of sheep,” Eriksson fires back.
“But not deep fried sheep,” someone else adds.
They glare at each other.
“So—one order of chapulines, coming up!” the waitress says. And when she walks away, she’s laughing to herself.
I can’t resist leaping into the fray. “A hundred bucks says Blake won’t eat two grasshoppers.”
“Are you eating them?” Blake demands.
“Sure, dude. Jamie and I will match you bug for bug. They come with dipping sauces. Just pretend you’re eating a crunchy pecan.”
“A pecan with six legs,” Jamie adds cheerfully. Our eyes meet, and his are twinkling. I feel such a rush of love when I see his smile. I want to throat-punch his boss for shafting him on that promotion. I really do.
It’s fun teasing Blake, and we do it on the regular. But Jamie knows that the real measure of a man isn’t whether he can eat a fried grasshopper. The real measure of a man is whether he can be a good partner, a hard worker, and a role model all at the same time.
Jamie is all those things. Why can’t Bill Braddock see that?
“A hundred bucks from me, too,” Eriksson says, tossing some bills onto the table. “Who else is in?”
The betting escalates. And soon the server is back with a new platter of food. She plops it down in front of Blake. “¡Buen provecho!”
“Does that mean—nice knowing you?” Blake grumbles. “Who’s going first?”
Jamie reaches over, plucks a fried brown grasshopper from the plate and shoves it into his mouth. “Mmm. Nice chili flavor.” He grabs a second one, dips it in the sauce and pops that one in his mouth too. He chews, smiling.
“Let’s go, Blake!” I prod. “There’s seven hundred dollars on this table that says you won’t eat two of them.”
“Seven hundred dollars, and your manhood,” Eriksson taunts, picking up a grasshopper and dipping it in sauce. “But no pressure.” He eats his in one bite.
“Fine,” Blake says with a scowl. “Just a second.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up to frame his own face. “J-babe, if for some reason I don’t make it back, I just wanted you to know that I love you. I know you’ll raise Puddles to be a fine dog. Oh, and your birthday present is in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.” He taps the screen and looks up at us with a serious expression. “Make sure she gets that video, fellas.”
“Will do,” I say with as much gravitas as the moment calls for. Which is none.
Blake reaches toward the plate as if it might bite him. But he grabs a grasshopper between his big fingers. No—two of them. He’s going with the all-at-once strategy.
“Do it! Do it!” I chant. And then everyone else starts chanting, too.
Suddenly we’re that table—the loud, obnoxious one that other diners despise. And we’re not even drinking.
Blake closes his eyes and opens his mouth. The grasshoppers go in. He chews…
We all lose our minds.
He swallows. Then he grabs Jamie’s beer out of his hand and chugs it.
Our table erupts with applause.
I have the best job in the whole damned world.
* * *
We have to be at the rink pretty early. But they let Jamie into the players’ entrance with me so that he can pick up comp tickets for himself and his parents.
“What are you going to do until game time?” I ask him.
“Heading back to the hotel. Returning some calls.” His eyes dip.
“What kind of calls?” I hear myself ask.
“That scout wants to talk to me again.” He sighs. “He’s here in San Jose.”
“Really?” I freeze, my hand on the locker room door. “Is that a coincidence?”
He shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m not sure. He wanted to meet me tonight, but I told him I was spending some quality time with the family.”
“You’re blowing him off?” I laugh. “Harsh.”
“My head is not in a great place to listen to him,” Jamie admits. “I need a couple of days to sort out my shit.”
“I bet.” I put a hand onto his shoulder and squeeze. “Sure love having you here, babe. This has been fun.”
His brown eyes grow warm. “It’s the best. I got a video of Blake eating the grasshoppers. That’s getting edited later. If you have any soundtrack suggestions, I’m listening.” He rubs his belly. “I’m never eating again, either. But the pain I’m feeling now was totally worth it for that mole sauce.”
“Take it easy.” I lean forward and plant a quick kiss on his jaw. “See you after the game?”
“Knock ’em dead, babe.” He gives me a quick hug, and then heads down the hallway, looking for the GM’s assistant and her stash of tickets.
* * *
Spirits are high while we stretch and suit up. I need a goal tonight. The Cannings will be in the stands, and I like to impress my in-laws. The Canning clan is the best thing that ever happened to me. They love me whether I score or not.
Still. Let’s get some points on the board. I’m in the mood to win.
I’m taping up my stick when Coach lets out a whistle. “Gather round, kids! Starting lineups
are posted. There’s two things we weren’t expecting. San Jose put Murray on the first line. And they’re playing Pitti in the net.”
“Yeah?” I perk up. I’d rather be firing on their number-two goalie. “That’s an interesting choice.”
“Go get ’em,” Coach says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Warm-ups start in two minutes.”
I snap on my helmet and do a set of slow squats to keep my quads warm. Then I follow my teammates out onto the ice. The clock has sixteen minutes on it—regulation warm-up time. It never feels like enough. I take my first quick lap. I’m watching the opposing goalie, and visualizing my shot. I mentally snap one into the upper left-hand corner. And then I think through my approach on the right.
I’m in the zone, which means I’m not paying attention to anyone outside the plexi. You learn to tune out the sounds of the stadium.
So it takes me a minute to notice that the name they’re calling over the sound system is familiar to me.
Very familiar.
“Jamie Canning, please identify yourself to a security staff member. Jamie Canning.”
What the hell is up with that?
4
Jamie
“Jamie Canning, please identify yourself to a security staff member. Jamie Canning.”
My head jerks to the side, like a dog tilting one ear when he’s trying to understand human speak. “Was that my name?” I ask my folks.
The three of us have just settled in our seats—third row, right behind the Toronto bench. One of the many perks of being married to the team’s top scorer. At home games, I sit in the Wives and Girlfriends box, but to be honest, I prefer watching live hockey right near the action.
My mom wrinkles her forehead. “I think it might have been.”
“Once again, Jamie Canning, please identify yourself to a security staff member.”
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.
It’s hella fun for one night, though. And I’ve never had better seats for one of Wes’s games.
When the first period comes to an end, I once again try to catch the attention of anyone from Toronto, but those bastards are all arrogantly skating off toward the tunnel without a backward look. With a lead of 3-1, they have a right to feel cocky.
I trudge back into the locker room with the San Jose game for the intermission. My clothes are still there, on the bench. Just to be an asshole, I dig out my phone, remove my borrowed helmet and snap a selfie in the teal jersey. I text it to Wes. He won’t see it until after the game, but this is a moment that needs to be memorialized.
“Hey, pretty boy,” a player taunts. “Maybe save the photo shoots for after the game?”
“Cut him some slack, bro,” someone argues. “This is a big deal for the dude.”
“Sure is.” I glance over gratefully at the player who’d sided with me.
“Where you from?” the player asks. He’s a rookie D-m
an.
“Grew up in Marin County, but I live in Toronto now. I coach juniors hockey.”
“Cool!” His face brightens. “Toronto, huh? Kinda funny that you got called in for this game.”
“Um…” It’s so much funnier than he even knows.
“Hey, no fucking way,” a voice snaps. I look up into the snarling face of Nik Sokolav, San Jose’s star forward. He must follow the sports gossip sites because he obviously recognizes me. “This guy can’t be our backup! Coach! What the fuck?” He stands up, pointing at me. “He’s sleeping with the fucking enemy! If he ends up having to go in, he’ll hand the game to Ryan fucking Wesley.”
Now everyone is staring. Awesome.
“Look,” I chirp before Gerlach can answer. “Nothing makes me happier than kicking the hubby’s ass. We used to have one-on-one competitions when we were kids and I won my fair share of them. I know how to stop the asshole.”
There are some nervous chuckles in the room.
“Leave the man alone,” Gerlach grunts. “Put the puck into the net tonight, Sokolav, and then it won’t matter who’s in the net.”
And then? That fucker does.
He scores back-to-back goals during the second period, tying the game. From the bench, I don’t miss the tight set of Wes’s jaw as he flops onto the bench after his shift. He’s pissed. He doesn’t like losing. But Toronto turns it around at the end of the second, taking the lead again courtesy of a bullet from Blake Riley.
The buzzer sounds and once again I leave the ice with “my” team, unable to signal to a solitary Toronto player. I do shout out, “Yo, Wesley!” at my husband’s retreating back, which gets me a deep scowl from Sokolav. Besides, my yell is drowned out by the thousands of other yells reverberating through the arena. I guess my short stint as a professional hockey player isn’t destined to be witnessed, but the story’ll be just as good when I tell it to Wes and the guys after the game.
The third period kicks off. Pitti once again is under attack, and once again holding his own against Toronto’s powerful offense.
