Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  “Jackson, you didn’t have to do this.”

  I wish he hadn’t. I want that dividing line. I want a permanent aisle.

  He’s slow to answer. Seconds tick past, and then he’s moving his big body into the aisle. He lifts a hand. I’m halfway convinced that he’s about to graze his knuckles along my cheek, but then his hand drops back to his side. His fingers curl into a tight fist that he knocks twice against his outer thigh. “Thank you for comin’ on board with this, Holls. Just”—he exhales, and it sounds as though he’s physically removing the pressure off his shoulders—“thank you.”

  He’s gone before I can edge out another word.

  The back of my skull collides with the headrest and I lift the envelope again to stare at the two tickets peeking out. Photography. My favorite candy. Headphones. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Jackson is trying to woo me.

  It’s such a ludicrous thought that I snort out loud.

  Our divorce was a mutual agreement, but he was the one to bring it into the discussion first.

  With two fingers, I tap the tickets back into the envelope—and then spot my ex-husband’s handwriting on the inner flap. The black ink against the red envelope is tough to read in the dim light and I poke Carmen in the shoulder.

  “Give me your phone,” I whisper, “I know you’ve been listening this whole time.”

  She doesn’t even bother to deny it as she sits up. “Get those romantic thoughts out of your mind, girl. He’s not the guy for you.”

  He was, once.

  “Phone, Carmen. You can lecture me after I’ve had coffee.”

  With a grumble, she slips me her phone, and I turn on the flashlight app and aim it at the envelope.

  My chest inflates with a sharp breath as I read the words he’s written for me:

  We aren’t married, not anymore. But I won’t forget what you’re doing for me, Holly. I needed this and I needed you. When you need me next, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re family, even if it’s not the way we always envisioned, and I learned a long time ago to never take family for granted. Jackson.

  I’m ashamed to admit that my nose grows itchy and tears tease at the corners of my eyes, demanding release into the world.

  We’re family.

  For as long as I can remember, my family was a unit of four with my grandparents at the helm and my brother, Sam, and I taking up the rear. I have no disillusions that I was loved, though it was the sort of love ruled with an iron thumb and a stern voice and a warning to not turn out like my irresponsible parents. Affection wasn’t something I knew firsthand until Jackson came into my life.

  He knows how much that F-word means to me, and I hate him for utilizing it now and for bending my steel resolve. More than anything, though, I hate the warmth that fills my chest as I clutch the envelope to my chest.

  That warmth feels like hope, and I refuse to feed it any more life than Jackson already has this morning.

  9

  Jackson

  The Nashville Predators are playing like a bunch of pussies tonight.

  It might be preseason, and there might be more rookies than vets on the ice, but, fuck. It’s like they’re dainty ballerinas being forced to crawl through the mud during army basic training and are terrified of getting their damn slippers wet. They dance out of the way when Beaumont comes barreling toward them; drop out of a scuffle for the puck against the boards with Henri Bordeaux way too easily.

  They’re looking to avoid injury, and we’re out to dominate and draw blood.

  I’m on the bench tonight, as I always am for the first game of preseason. Watching and analyzing alongside Coach Hall to scope out our weak spots and discuss what we can do to bolster our lines. It’s a proposal I made a few years back with the Blades—a tip I picked up from the captain of the Stars when I played for them—and it’s something that has always helped me to counterattack when I’m in the rink.

  Only, tonight we look like vultures swarming in for the kill.

  I don’t know whether to applaud or wince when Marshall Hunt, our top-notch center, nails the puck in at the net’s junction, lighting the lamp a half-second later.

  4-1 is now 5-1.

  And we’re only in the second period with another six minutes to go before the third.

  “This is getting ugly,” I mutter. I’m in a suit, just like Coach, and the hem of my tailored jacket lifts as I fit my hands on my hips and stare resolutely at the ice. “If this is any indication as to how their season is gonna go, they’re either fucked or scared to make big moves.”

  Coach watches as our guys thump Hunt on the back before tossing his clipboard on the bench beside Cain. “Maybe we’re just that good.”

  “You think?”

  “Not even a little.” Rubbing his mustache, he adds, “But I do think we’re playing a little harder now that we’ve got Getting Pucked hovering around us all the time. No one wants to look like shit when you have a TV crew ready to catch you looking like shit.”

  That, I can believe.

  In the last few weeks, the Getting Pucked production crew has been everywhere. In the locker rooms after practice. In the stands during practice. Shoving microphones in our faces whenever we pause long enough to guzzle Gatorade when we’re switching lines. I’ve even been approached while pissing in one of the arena’s urinals, my dick clamped in hand.

  If there wasn’t an official end date to the madness, I’d be concerned that Getting Pucked is a bit like contracting herpes—once you’re infected, it’s yours for life.

  The Predators make a call to switch from first to second lines, and Coach snaps at Josh Kammer and Daxton Garrett to get in there and sub out Bordeaux and Hunt. They do, and the rest of the game passes exactly as the first two periods have. I’m halfway convinced Harrison let a goal slip in the five-hole, during the last twenty seconds of the game, out of pure pity.

  The final score? 7-2.

  Talk about a massacre on the ice—but instead of entrails being swept up by the Zamboni after the game, there are hats and towels.

  I trail my teammates as they tromp on their skates back to the locker room, but I don’t get far. Getting Pucked’s director—Mark Fillmore, a.k.a the Celine Dion enthusiast—cuts me off just before the locker room.

  “Mind if we hit you with some questions before you join the team?” he asks, jerking a thumb to his camera and sound guys. “We want to capture your initial reaction to what you saw on the ice.” With a snap of his fingers, his two guys move forward and get in my face. “How do you feel about taking home the first preseason win?”

  Play nice, man. Don’t be a dick.

  It’s my job to watch my boys on the ice and study their every last move, just like it’s this guy’s job to make good TV. I get that. I know that. And it’s the only reason that I shove my hands deep into the front pockets of my slacks and get comfortable, resigned to doing what needs to be done.

  “Naturally, I’m excited to see the team play well.” I let out a low chuckle, hoping that it doesn’t sound strained. “But at the end of the day, it’s preseason, which means it doesn’t really matter how well we did. It’s practice on a larger scale, nothin’ more.”

  Fillmore’s eyes pop open wide, as though my willingness to talk has surprised him, and he rolls his fingers in the air, urging me to continue.

  My cheeks pinch as I force a smile. “Nashville played soft. They’re working a different game than we are right now, and that’s not an indicator that they’ll do shitty this season or that we’ll win every game.” I’m not so much of an idiot that I’ll trash talk another team in an interview that’ll be seen by the masses in a week’s time. Offering a casual shrug, I say, “Every team has different tactics.”

  “But with seven goals on the Blades’ end, that’s a rather bold statement to make for a first game.”

  I stare at the camera. “What’s bolder? Protecting your best players from injury? Or putting your first line out on day one with the hope that you can see
where your weak points sit?”

  The camera breaks from me and swings to Getting Pucked’s director. It’s easy to see that he’s pondering what I’ve said—he pinches the collar of his dress shirt, popping the top button free like he’s either overheated or buying himself some time before answering. And then he verbally swivels in another direction when he says, “Before you were traded to the Blades, you were the assistant captain for the Boston Bruins for two seasons. Do you think that experience put you in place to do well in the Blades franchise?”

  “I think my love for the sport put me in a good position to do well with the Blades. Experience gets you far, but an innate understanding of the game gets you further.”

  “And you have this . . . innate understanding, yes?”

  When you’ve lived and breathed something for thirty years of your life, it’s no longer an “understanding.” It’s something much bigger, something I could never put into words, even if I tried.

  At the end of the day, I am hockey.

  It’s what I think about when I roll out of bed.

  It’s what I think about when I’m in the gym, pumping iron three times my weight.

  It’s what I think about when I’m in the shower, rinsing away the sweat and exhaustion after pushing myself to the brink each and every day, worry always lingering in the back of my head on those what-ifs.

  Those what-ifs, more than anything, bring the anxiety swiftly back.

  I shove the depressing thought away ruthlessly, but it’s poignant enough to ruin my mood and erase the fake-it-for-TV smile on my face. “Any hockey player will be able to read between the skates—I’m no exception.” It’s a complete brush-off response, but I wave at the camera like I’m the goddamned king of England and back up out of the frame. “You good with all that?” I ask Fillmore, hoping he won’t need more from me. “Don’t have time for Celine Dion chitchat tonight.”

  By some twist of fate, he gives me a double thumbs-up and motions me into the locker room as though I’ve been dismissed.

  I’ll take the dismissal—it beats letting the darkness drag me under, the way it’s done for the last year. It creeps into my chest, spiraling to my extremities like an infection running through my veins, paralyzing in its toxicity.

  Deep breaths, man.

  A hand claps down on my shoulder. “Want to grab celebratory wings and beer with the guys?”

  I glance back at Harrison. “It’s not really a celebration when the opposing team played it safe and kept their first line off the ice. We both know you let that last snipe in.”

  “I felt bad. Their rookies were slow as hell.” His mouth quirks up. “I sure as fuck won’t be lenient the next time we see them. Let’s just say that I did it for rookie encouragement.”

  “What a giver,” I drawl, cracking a grin as the pressure eases off my chest.

  “My girl tells me the same thing in bed.” With a wink, he steers me toward his stall with a hand to my shoulder, so he can change out of his gear and into street clothes. “I’m hoping she’ll be saying the same thing when I pop the question.”

  The question.

  I blink. Then blink again. “Holy shit, man, you finally proposing? Only took you what . . . like five years?”

  Harrison grunts, flips me the bird, then draws a black sweater over his head. “Somewhere around there. We’ve just been enjoying life.”

  It took me less than three to propose and marry Holly. We got married during my first season with the Bruins—a small, intimate wedding with just my mom, her grandmother and younger brother, and a select handful of friends present. We did it here in Boston, near the harbor with the lights from the ships twinkling a stone’s throw away, and a tepid fall breeze teasing the strands of her blond hair.

  Our wedding was beautiful. Elegant. Just like her.

  Out of habit, I look at my left hand. It’s unadorned, as it’s been for months now, my platinum wedding band tucked away in a safe inside my condo. Balling my hand into a fist, I shake it out. Sometimes, in my weak moments, I can still feel Holly slipping the ring onto my finger. Can still see the way she smiled brightly, and whispered fervently, “Always you, Jackson.”

  Fuck me.

  I brush aside my suit jacket, then slip my hand back into my pants pocket as I yank my head out of the past. “She’ll say yes. Charlie loves you.”

  The goalie laughs. “Of course she’ll say yes. Soulmates, man.” He steps into a pair of black dress shoes, then hauls his big-ass duffel over his shoulder. “Anyway, you coming with us? The guys want wings, and I’m in the mood to play some darts and kick more ass than I already have tonight.”

  “If Charlie tells you to screw off when you get on one knee, it’s because your ego is the size of Texas.”

  “So’s my dick.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fat and squat, then? Lucky lady.”

  “What’s fat and squat?” Hunt asks as he approaches us, his duffel—like Harrison’s—hiked over one shoulder.

  “Harrison’s dick.”

  Hunt grins wickedly. “You in the fat-and-squat-cock club, buddy?” He lifts a hand, palm out. “Give it, here, my man. It’s a party of one—you’re the first to join.”

  Harrison throws out a fist and punches our center in the arm. “Asshole.”

  The two bicker like an old married couple while we head for the bus parked outside of Bridgestone Arena. We all pile in, one after another, and I choose an empty seat toward the front. Stripping off my jacket, I lay it across my lap and watch as my guys file in past my row.

  When Josh Kammer moves past me, I call him out. “Sit with me, rookie.”

  His eyes shoot to the back of the bus and then down at the aisle seat next to mine. “Yeah?” He sounds hesitant, uncertain. Fingers dive into his shorn hair, scratching behind his ear. “That cool?”

  “It’s cool if I say it is.”

  “Right.” His ass collides with the seat, knees pinned together like he’s scared shitless and trying to make himself disappear into thin air. Doesn’t make his case any stronger when he wrings his hands and picks at his nails, head down like he’s fascinated with the skin flaking off.

  With my gaze on the seat in front of me, I give him a second to get a grip. Kammer was a first-round draft pick out of Rhode Island—a rookie that Coach, our GM, and I envisioned completing a power forward that could do real damage on the ice, alongside myself and Hunt, should something happen to Henri Bordeaux.

  At URI, Kammer was quick on his feet, a player with little fear and a knack for making filthy moves that made the crowd roar with approval. Tonight, I didn’t see any of that potential the team doled out so much money for. It’s a problem. Kammer’s contract is worth more than many veterans’ and all eyes are on him to make that same magic happen for the Blades as he did for his alma mater.

  “You played sloppy tonight,” I finally murmur, not wanting to level him down to the quick by being brutally honest. Being brutally honest? Kammer was a damn pigeon out on the ice, always waiting to be fed the puck instead of making those same moves that earned him a spot on the team in the first place.

  He’s quiet for a moment, still fidgeting in his seat. “We won, Cap.”

  At his defensive tone, I set my ankle on my opposite knee, then lace my fingers over my shin. Casual to the very end. I learned long ago that yelling got me nowhere. What’s that saying? Patience is a virtue? I’m an impulsive man in every aspect of life but with my team.

  I tap my fingers on my leg. “Wrong answer, kid.” His head jerks in my direction, and I lift a brow, daring him to challenge me. “Want to try again without the pissy attitude?”

  “I’m just saying,” he mutters, “we won and it’s preseason. I’ll do better next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time if you show up like you did tonight.” When he opens his mouth to argue, I stampede right over him: “Part of being a team is transparency. If you’re nervous, say so. If your ankle feels like Satan just took a piss on it, mention it to John over i
n therapy. What you did tonight was stand there and skate like you’ve never played hockey before. The team won, but you didn’t touch the puck once.”

  “Sometimes players don’t get the biscuit. It happens—”

  “Russell needed you to make an assist and you watched the puck fly past you.”

  His shoulders crumple at my mention of the second-line right-winger, my backup. “Fuck, Cap, I just—”

  I don’t pat his arm or hug him like I’m some mother hen tending to her chicks, but I do him one better. Shifting my hands from my shin to my knee, I say, “My first game with the NHL, I threw up in the locker room during our pep talk. I was so fuckin’ nervous. I envisioned everything going wrong that could go wrong—me slipping when climbing over the boards, the Jumbotron catching me eating the bench when I wiped out. Anything and everything went through my head and I let that shit get to me.”

  “You puked?”

  He sounds absolutely horrified, and I chuckle. “Right on the floor. Didn’t even make it to the garbage can. You can ask my wi”—I clear my throat—“ex-wife when you see her. I’m sure she’d be all too happy to relay how I made a fool of myself.”

  Kammer’s hands loosen and land on his thighs. “What’d your coach say?”

  “Told me to clean the shit up while the rest of my team went out for the National Anthem. I was on my knees, trying not to hurl some more, while they were all out there, hands over their hearts and ready to play a killer game.”

  He whistles sharply. “Damn, that blows.”

  It’d been even worse when I finally got my ass to my team. I felt queasy, looked like shit, and proceeded to play the worst hockey of my career. “My coach benched me for the first three games of the season.”

  This time, Kammer says nothing and I can almost hear the wheels spinning in his head, no doubt worrying that I’m about to bench him right now. End of the day, Coach Hall makes the final decision on who plays or doesn’t play, but I’ve got input and I’ve always had more control with the playbook than I’ve seen of other captains and their coaches.