Gah, my mentions were flooded. I’d used the hashtag, which meant a bunch more people saw it.
WTF do you know about hockey? some douche-hole asked me.
I rolled my eyes and ignored them all. People could be assholes. I didn’t like it, but it was a reality I was becoming used to.
The game ended up with the Aces winning three–two, which burned a bit, but I couldn’t be too bummed about it. It wasn’t like they just eliminated the Condors from the playoffs or anything. I kept the TV on for the postgame show while I scrolled through Twitter on my phone, but my ears perked up when they started talking about Chase. I lowered my phone and watched the TV.
“He seems to be playing more hesitantly with the puck,” one of the men said. “He chooses to pass it a lot more than play it, and that’s a problem.”
“It definitely could be,” the female commentator replied. “It’s early in the season, but Hartman has yet to score his first goal. That has to be a disappointment to the Chicago Aces.”
Huh. I’d been right.
“He’s a player with a lot of offensive talent,” the man went on. “Although he was considered to have underperformed when playing for the Islanders, the last two seasons with the Aces he seemed to have redeemed himself.”
I listened to them analyze Chase for a few more minutes before turning to critiquing the play of the Condors’ goalie, who I agreed had not been sharp tonight.
I picked up my empty popcorn bowl and carried it to the massive kitchen. I set it on the counter and grabbed another bottle of water from my fridge. I heard my phone buzz on the couch. I had to go grab it to plug it in anyway before bed, so I flicked out the lights and returned to the living room.
Of course there were Twitter notifications, but I already knew that because I’d been stupid enough to use the Condors hashtag when I’d responded to Chase, but I still looked at them, and yeah, there was a reply from him to my earlier message.
Chirp. Chirp. Ace trumps bird.
I grinned and quickly replied, because he’d only messaged a minute ago and maybe he’d still see it. That’s terrible. There are no birds in a deck of cards.
True. We’re not playing cards. Hockey! The best game in the world, baby!
Hmmm. Maybe.
Toughest players.
My lips twitched. Are you tough?
Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?
A laugh burst from my lips. I dropped down to the couch and sank back into the cushions. Before I could reply, another tweet came from him.
We play on ice, not the ground. That’s hard.
And more…
No other sport has the same speed.
Hockey players are nice guys.
I replied, So you’re tough but you’re a nice guy.
Exactly.
A smile pulled at my lips and my heart did a fast little flutter. Not sure I believe that.
Maybe sometime I can prove it to you.
I waited for a few minutes before I replied, because I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to shut down this Twitter flirtation, but I also wasn’t sure how far to take it. Finally I tapped in, Maybe. Good game. Night!
Chapter 3
Chase
I couldn’t believe I was tweeting with Jordyn Banks.
She’d seen my tweet and replied, and we’d gotten a fun conversation going. Holy fuck.
I grinned and stared at my phone, re-reading the messages.
That was the most fun I’d had off the ice in a while.
What did that say about me? While I’d tamed down my partying ways, I still liked to go out and, just being honest, there was no shortage of women who liked to hang around with hockey players. I’d had my share of hookups, but that was all they were. I was not into settling down.
I’d had a girlfriend once. She’d dumped me because my career hadn’t gone the way she’d thought it should. That shouldn’t have been a surprise. I was used to having huge expectations placed on me. I was better off alone. Free. Not worrying about the woman left behind at home when we were on the road, and in the off-season doing whatever I wanted, not worrying that I was disappointing her.
So it was kind of weird how a few tweets actually gave me a bit of a rush.
“Coming, Chaser?”
Some of the guys were going out after the game. Meanwhile I was sitting on the bench tweeting with a pop star. I grinned and jumped up, shoving my phone in my pocket. “Yeah.”
We went to The Gallery, a hot club on West Ontario. I’d been there a few times since it opened. It was a cool place, kind of European, with lots of laser lights and high-tech sound. I could feel the beat of the music even from outside the club. We had no trouble getting a table when Bomber passed some bills to the dude at the door, and the guys were soon ordering Belvedere, Tanqueray, and Chivas from the bottle-service menu. That got us some excellent service from attentive waitresses, not to mention the attention of women who wanted to share it with us.
We invited them to join us—why not, they were all hot, wearing short dresses, high heels, lots of makeup, and big smiles. We were dressed in our game-day suits and ties. A woman with long, straight, dark hair sat beside me, and my gaze dropped briefly to her bare legs when she crossed them, the skirt of her dress riding high on her thighs.
“I can’t believe you guys are all hockey players!” she said breathlessly. “I love hockey!”
Ah, here we go. A weird sense of déjà vu fell over me. How many times had I been in this exact situation, talking to a girl who said she loved hockey, but didn’t really know anything about it. The other guys were all into this scene, Bomber flirting with a redhead, Cam and Danny talking to two blondes, Rico talking to another blonde and an African American woman. Like I said, all beautiful, all smiling.
So I talked to the girl beside me, flirting a little, laughing a lot, tossing back a few glasses of Chivas. The weirdest thing? I wanted to tell Ava (that was her name) about how Jordyn Banks and I were tweeting earlier.
Lame. So lame.
We danced, crowded among all the moving bodies, the music too loud to talk. Most guys aren’t into dancing much, but I don’t mind it. I like music, even though I’m not even a little bit musical myself, but I kind of like moving to the beat, letting a good song get inside me so I can actually feel it. And of course, there’s the chance to put your hands all over a hot chick.
The music changed and I immediately recognized the song—a remix of one of Jordyn’s hits. I’d watched the music video a zillion times, probably, although this mix was different—more techno, with throbbing bass, but still her smooth vocals.
Damn.
I could close my eyes and picture Jordyn. The video was super sexy, with close-ups of her face, but also her dancing a lot. I’d also watched her perform the song at some awards show, dancing on the stage dressed in a skimpy, shiny gold outfit and her signature high heels, belting out the lyrics.
Seriously, she had to be the sexiest woman alive, with a sweet, heart-shaped face and big eyes and dance moves that just made me think of fucking.
I swallowed a sigh and tried to focus on the woman I was dancing with, someone real live, right here, and probably willing to go home with me.
Sadly, I didn’t really want her to go home with me. But I had to stop fantasizing over a pop star I’d never in a million years get to be with.
NOVEMBER
There she was—on the cover of some chick magazine, looking absolutely fucking gorgeous.
The picture came up in my Instagram feed, posted by Jordyn. The headline on the magazine read, JORDYN BANKS—FUN AND FEARLESS!
I briefly considered going to buy the magazine but ruled that out. The guys would never let me forget it if I bought a chick magazine.
So I went online and read the article.
I know, I kno
w, I really had to stop doing this. Since that day she’d followed me on Twitter and we’d tweeted at each other a few times, I’d resisted the urge to continue to tweet her. Sometimes days went by without my even checking out her social media presence. I had a life. I was a busy guy. Sometimes, anyway. I mean, right now we were in a stretch of the schedule with all home games, but even with practices and game-day skates and workouts, charity work, and a photo shoot for a sportswear line I’d gotten a sweet endorsement deal with, I still had some downtime.
The article was interesting. They asked about her relationship with Jasper Wright, and I gave a fist pump reading where she confirmed it was over. Then she talked about being single and how she was enjoying her independence. “I am totally comfortable being alone,” she told the interviewer. “It’s a great way to learn more about yourself, and for a woman, independence is important.”
I nodded as I read.
I had to get to the arena early this morning because I had a meeting with Coach before our practice today, so I finished the article and shut down my computer. Before I left, I headed to the kitchen to take a couple of Advil. Last year I’d injured my hand in a freakish incident. I’d fallen behind the net, and my arm was on the bottom bar of the goal net when someone fell on top of it. I broke my thumb—which sucked but wasn’t that bad, I didn’t even have to miss any games—and it healed up…but my wrist still bothered me from time to time.
I put the empty glass into the dishwasher and picked up the sponge sitting beside the sink to wipe the counter so it was spotless before I left. In my life, I’ve been called a neat freak a time or two hundred. I like things clean and orderly, both when it comes to my hockey gear and in my home. Also, the one time I went to a game without cleaning up my kitchen, we lost, so…
The day was overcast and gray, with the clouds spitting out a few icy snowflakes, so I wrapped a scarf around my neck and grabbed my gloves. I liked Chicago, and I wasn’t a wuss when it came to cold—I grew up in Northern Ontario, Canada, and I knew cold. It was nice when we got those road trips to Florida and California though.
I wasn’t really looking forward to this meeting. I was disappointed in my own play so far this season, and I knew the team was too. I was prepared for Coach to yell at me. Brad Wendell was a pretty even-tempered guy, but he did have his moments of intensity, and I liked that. If your coach wasn’t passionate about the game, how were you gonna be?
“Close the door,” Coach said as I walked in.
I slid the glass door closed, grateful for the white-noise system in the office that made it impossible for anyone outside to hear what was being said inside when the door was shut.
Coach rose from the chair behind his desk and came out to meet me, gesturing at the oval table where various meetings were held. I took a seat and he sat at one end, so I swiveled the chair to face him. Behind him was a big, wall-mounted TV screen, which was currently dark, and sleek maple bookshelves that held books, binders, a couple of pucks, and some framed photos.
Coach didn’t yell, but he was serious—gray eyebrows drawn down, his mouth straight. “Look, I can tell you’re frustrated,” he said in his gravelly voice. “I know you want to play well. And I know you can play well. These things happen. It’s like, the harder you try to score, the harder it is.”
I bobbed my head with heartfelt agreement.
“What do you think is going on?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed the back of my neck. Actually I sort of did know, and it was pissing me off. But I wasn’t going to say anything. I knew better than to make excuses for myself. So I lifted my chin because I knew I needed to be tough, and I knew I needed to do better. “I think I’m working hard.”
“Sometimes the goals just don’t come,” Coach said. “Sometimes you can be playing your best game and the puck’s just not going in the net.”
I heard the giant “but” at the end of that sentence. Because I wasn’t playing my best game.
“What do you think I should work on?” I asked humbly. Because I was willing to work. Story of my life.
“Let’s get you working with Danny. He’s waiting for you to go over some things before practice…ideas for helping players get out of a slump.”
A slump. I was officially in a slump. Great. I nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”
“Anything else going on with you?” Coach leaned back in his chair.
“Nope.” I met his eyes steadily.
“Because if there’s anything you need help with, we’re here for that.”
I knew what he was talking about. We’d had players end up in rehab because they got addicted to prescription meds, players who were alcoholics, one guy whose wife died of cancer. One of our veterans had decided to retire over the summer because his game wasn’t as sharp as it used to be and he wanted to go out on his own terms. Another guy and his wife had had a baby who had a bunch of scary health problems. We all had personal lives and shit that happened. And I’d been a disappointment to a team before, so I knew what he was thinking.
“My wrist has been bothering me,” I finally admitted.
He frowned. “Yeah?”
“I’m not making excuses. But since I broke my thumb last year, sometimes my wrist hurts. Not all the time.”
“Tony know about this?”
Tony was our head trainer. “No.”
“Let him have a look. Set you up to see the doc if need be.”
“Otherwise I’m good,” I assured him. “I just have to work on a few things.”
He inclined his head. “Okay. Thanks, Chase. You’re a talented young man. I’d hate to see you squander that away.”
“I’m not. I learned my lessons.”
Glumly, I headed to the locker room to change. I should have been motivated and invigorated from the pep talk. Coach still believed in me. But I wouldn’t describe my mood as invigorated.
Sitting on a bench, I absently rubbed my wrist, then rotated it around a few times one way, then the other. It felt totally fine right now. Today would be fine.
Working with our assistant coach Danny Curran would be good. I might have been a veteran but I knew there was always more I could improve on, and I seriously wanted to do better, so I was all ears when we were on the ice.
“You wanna know the truth?” Danny skated backward, facing me. “Scoring slumps have nothing to do with your sweet moves, your sick shot, or your stick handling.”
I lifted my eyebrows, playing with a puck on my blade.
“It all has to do with what’s up here.” He pointed to his head.
I eyed him skeptically. Not that I didn’t believe in sports psychology—I totally did, and I’d learned a lot from the sports psychologists I’d worked with. It was true that mental skills were as important as physical skills. But right now…I was pretty sure it wasn’t my brain screwing me up.
“Having said that, what we’re going to do is go back to the little things.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t worry about scoring. Scoring is the outcome. We’re going to focus on the process. The things you can control. But we’ll also work on changing your thinking.”
I shot the puck at the net with an easy snap.
“It’s all about the process. Better process creates better outcomes.”
“Sure.”
“Okay. First thing—no hanging out on the perimeter of the play. You have to get inside the perimeter. Attack the net with the puck and be ready to get hit, slashed, and whacked. Are you doing everything you can to take the puck to the dirty areas in front of the net? Or are you hanging out near the boards?”
I thought about my play. I wasn’t one to stay outside the offensive zone, and I thought I’d proved that over the years with my numbers. But lately…was there some truth to that?
“Next thing is to keep it simple. Let’s put a number on how m
any shooting chances you have in the next game. What do you think?”
I knew my numbers. “Eighteen.”
Danny chuckled. “That was last year. This year, let’s say…seven.”
“Jesus.”
“That sounds doable, right?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“You know how many shots it takes Crosby or Ovechkin to score a goal?”
“Uh…” I started doing mental math.
“Seven. It takes them about seven shots. And they’re the best. For you, maybe twenty.”
“What?” My jaw slackened.
“Kidding.” Danny laughed. “Come on, loosen up, kid. You can be a sniper yourself. So if you want to score, you have to shoot the puck at least seven times. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Shoot every time you have a chance. Nothing cute. Nothing fancy. And…” He paused and gave me a stern stare. “Stop trying to make passes when you’re in the shooting zone.”
I tried not to wince, because I knew I’d been doing that.
Danny lined up seven pucks for me on the blue line. “Take seven shots. Right now.”
I did it, not fast, but deliberately, one…two…three…four…five…six…seven, taking aim at the net. Six out of seven went in.
“Next, stop watching the puck. Watch the play instead. Watch what’s happening and get yourself open for somebody to get the puck to you.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at that one. Another thing I thought I’d proven was my hockey smarts. I knew how to read the play. But I didn’t say anything, just nodded.
“You should have no problem with that,” Danny added. “You’ve got good hockey sense. But what happens is when you’re feeling the pressure of not scoring, you change the way you play without even realizing it. So make a conscious effort to relax, stop watching the puck, and focus on reading the play.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. Maybe he was right.
“And here’s the mental part of it. Don’t think about a black dog.”
Playing Hurt_An Aces Hockey Novel Page 2
