by A. J. Wynter
“Who?” I followed her gaze. “Andy?”
“Wait. That’s the Andy that’s been letting you in here in the mornings?” She pointed at him with her straw.
“Yes and stay away from him.” I threatened.
“Ooh, is he bad news?” She bit the end of her straw and I saw the glint in her eye.
“No, he’s just – he’s a custodian.” Andy was the nicest man I’d ever known.
“Is that what you think of me?” Paige put on a fake pout.
“You have a type, P. And thirty-eight-year-old Zamboni drivers are not it.”
I waited for Paige to object, but her eyes grew wide as she stared at something over the top of my head. I jumped as hands clasped down on my shoulders.
“Relax, sis.” Dylan shimmied past me and into the seat beside Paige.
“Nice goal.” Paige bit the end of the plastic straw, flattening it between her teeth.
“Thanks,” Dylan grinned.
“When did you turn into such a hothead?” I asked. The fight was extremely out of character for my brother.
“You said you’d only come to the game if I rode the stick. I went with the old ‘shoot the glove’.” He dug his hand into Paige’s popcorn and crammed it into his mouth all while keeping a huge smile on his face. Everyone has their own way of dealing with grief, and I’m no psychiatrist, but Dylan’s outburst on the ice, and cavalier attitude towards life in general, seemed to indicate that his was anger and denial.
“I was joking.” I stared at the shiny sheet of ice as Andy finished his last lap. There was something about a fresh sheet that relaxed me - a clean slate – a fresh start. “You’ve been missing practices. The last thing you need is to get kicked out of the game.”
“Want a beer?” He ignored me. The question was aimed at Paige, not me.
“Sure.” Paige handed him her empty plastic cup.
“Jess?” He stood up and fixed his game tie.
“Shouldn’t you be over with your team?” I glanced at the home bench as the Otters started their warmup laps around the wet ice.
“Meh.” He shrugged and started to walk backwards up the stairs. “So that’s a no then?” he pointed at me. I shook my head as he walked away. I had been so preoccupied with my own life falling apart, I hadn’t noticed that Dylan was making sure that his did too.
By the time Dylan got back precariously balancing four plastic cups of draft beer, the second period was well underway. “It was cheaper to buy two.” He explained as Paige took the cups from his hands.
“Jess?” Paige held up the extra beer. “I won’t be able to drink two before they get warm.”
Dylan nudged Paige. “If she doesn’t want it, I can help you with that.”
“Actually, maybe I will take one,” I grabbed one of the flimsy cups from Paige’s hand and took a sip. I rarely drank and was surprised that the watery beer tasted good.
The Otters and Predators were tied one to one. I blocked out the giggling and flirting taking place beside me and started watching the game in earnest. The players were good, there was no doubt about it, but there were three that stood out – and they were all Otters. I found myself drawn to number eighty-eight, not because he was the guy from this morning, but because of his technique. The man knew how to harness the power of his edges but was leaving some speed on the table with his stride technique. But, for being such a behemoth of a man, I was impressed with his maneuvering skills. Where Dylan was thin and lanky, eighty-eight was solid and powerful, yet managed to gracefully stick handle his weight in circles around the Predator’s defensemen.
Fitzgerald passed the puck to Townsend, who arced around the back of the net, faked a backhand, and then passed the puck back to Fitzgerald who was ready and waiting to slap it into the top right corner of the net.
The goal light lit up and sirens screamed. Fitzgerald hugged Tanner and the rest of the team gathered around the duo.
“Wooo.” Dylan was on his feet. “Yeah, Fitzy!” he screamed, raising his glass in the air.
There was no way he could’ve heard Dylan, but Fitzy’s eyes scanned the audience and seemed to stop on him, then on me. Even from this distance, the intensity in his eyes was apparent. The Fitzgerald on the ice was a far cry from the bumbling jock from this morning.
I inhaled sharply and averted my gaze before he did, wondering if he could tell that I had been staring at him, and also wondering if he recognized me as the skate guard attacker. I finished the last sip of my beer and stood up. “I’m going home.”
“Ah, come on, Jess. The game is just getting good.” Dylan said.
“Is that because you’re not on the ice right now?” I eyed the two empty cups under his seat and wondered how he had managed to get two fresh new drinks without me noticing.
“Touché,” he laughed.
“Paige, can I drop you off at home?” It was an empty offer; I could tell by the way she was leaning into Dylan that she had found her spot for the rest of the evening.
“I think I’ll stay,” she shot a glance at Dylan and he gave me a smug shrug.
I slung my handbag over my shoulder and Paige and Dylan both drew their knees to the side to let me pass. The crowd erupted in cheers and I turned to see what I was missing. The Otters were short-handed, and number eighty-eight was on a breakaway, the red sweaters of the Predators flashed down the ice as they tried to catch the lone Otter. This time I wasn’t impressed by Fitzy’s blades, it was the intensity in his movements, the way his head remained perfectly still as his body worked its magic beneath him. He was in the zone, I could see it, I recognized it and my stomach constricted in excitement for him. The rest of the crowd was standing and screaming and I clutched my bag, my fingernails leaving crescent curves in the leather as number eighty-eight passed the blue line, wound up, but instead of faking, as he did with his first goal, he followed through with his stick and the puck launched, too fast for anyone’s eyes to effectively follow its path, the only giveaway to its destination was the spasm of the net behind the goaltender. The screams and the bass of the announcer’s voice reverberated in my chest. I knew that I had witnessed something magical and that one day, number eighty-eight was going to be a star.
“Bye,” I shouted to Dylan and Paige.
They were both screaming and clapping, but Paige stopped to hug me. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and even though I saw the beginning of a mistake that was likely brewing between her and Dylan, I knew that she genuinely wanted me at the game too.
“I have practice in a few hours,” I shouted.
She nodded. “Of course.”
It had been my excuse for the past three months, and even though she said that she understood, I could see or hear the disappointment in her voice whenever I canceled. But she didn’t understand what was at stake.
I reached the stairs and turned to look at the ice, Fitzy was back at the player’s bench. Unlike Dylan, he didn’t showboat or play to the crowd. His gaze was on the ice, but then I saw him break focus and look to the stands, to Dylan and Paige – and then to me.
There were thousands of people in the arena that night. There was no way he’s looking at you, I told myself and my sneakers squeaked as I rushed up the sticky stairs. He’s not looking at you, I repeated, but my stomach was gripped tightly in a knot and I was having a tough time catching my breath.
Why was I acting like a preteen girl at a Jonas Brother’s concert? I walked as quickly as I could out of the arena and into the warm night air, where my shoulders finally relaxed. I shook it off. I didn’t like hockey players, and the guy that had walked into the dressing room this morning was the poster boy for exactly what I did NOT want in a man.
Chapter 6 – Kane
Out of all the coaches I’d ever had, Dean Covington was my favorite. He somehow managed to inspire us without screaming and throwing stuff – but tonight, his eyes flashed, and his nostrils flared as he looked around the room.
“Wh
o was out there tonight?” He raised his arms. “You boys might have won tonight, but that wasn’t my team out there.”
I paused with my fingers in my skate’s laces. Since word had spread that the Thunder’s scout was going to be in the audience, everyone had turned on their inner Wayne Gretzky. I was just as guilty, there were times when I should have passed the puck, but I waited, wanting to show off my skills.
“Fitzy, Leo was wide open on that last play – why didn’t you follow our play?”
“I—I—” I didn’t know what to say.
“I come in here, and you guys are celebrating a win, but I didn’t see a win out there.” He slapped the clipboard against his palm. “I saw a bunch of selfish assholes.”
I shifted in my seat, my one foot on the floor, the other still in my skate. The blood from my toenail had soaked through my compression socks.
“Townsend,” Coach turned to face Tanner. “You’re the captain of this team, and you and Fitzgerald were playing like there were only two of you on the ice.”
Tanner opened his mouth to reply, but then hung his head.
“I know what happened out there tonight, and you boys need to forget who is in the stands. We have one more game against the Predators, and if I was their coach...” He shook his head. “I’d be rubbing my hands together because there are some serious holes in this team’s armor.”
I glanced sideways at Tanner, his hands were clasped, and his gaze was on the floor. The room was dead silent, no one in the room was going to challenge the coach, the only guy who was stupid enough to challenge him was out frolicking in the stands with those beautiful girls. Who was that figure skater, and why was she sitting with Dylan?
The silence lingered into extremely uncomfortable territory as Coach Covington stared us down. “Where’s Moss?” he asked.
We all glanced from side to side. Dylan had been kicked out of the game in the first period, but instead of sitting with us, he had gone to drink beer in the stands. I scanned the room, his bag was sitting in front of his spot, but Dylan Moss was nowhere to be seen.
“Tanner Townsend, you are the captain of this team. Where is your player?”
Tanner exhaled loudly. “I don’t know.”
It was extremely unprofessional for Dylan to go and sit in the stands, but to not show up for the post-game, to stand united with his team, it was like he didn’t care at all anymore.
“Well, Townsend. When that showboating motherfucker shows his face, you tell him that’s strike two.”
The room went silent. I looked from Tanner to Coach.
“You heard me. I won’t tolerate behavior like that.” He kicked the side of the plastic garbage can and it wobbled before toppling over onto the rubberized floor. “And don’t you dare feel sorry for him.” He pointed around the room. “Any one of you,” he said. “That disgusting act out there could’ve cost you guys the game.”
Coach was right. Dylan had put us all at risk to show off for some fucking puck bunnies. I put all emotion aside when I played, but now I felt rage. I clenched my hands into fists. What if we had lost tonight? That fucker could’ve ruined my chance at the National League.
“Get dressed.” Coach paused at the door, turning to face us one more time, his face a little softer. “You guys won tonight, and I’m proud of you for that. Fitzy, beautiful slap shot, Townsend, great stickhandling out there.”
All of our eyes were trained on the coach, he didn’t play favorites, but he always selected a player to run the drills at the next practice. It was his version of ‘star of the game.’ He pointed to the shaggy-haired forward that we all called the Lion. The guy had a tan year-round and a mane of hair that all the bunnies said they’d kill for. “Leo will run drills at practice on Sunday.”
Even with his tan, Leo’s cheeks flushed pink. I understood where the coach was coming from, but it was usually myself, Tanner, Mike, or occasionally even Dylan, who ran drills. I concentrated on the laces of my skate; did I need to remind him that I had scored two goals? We would’ve lost if it wasn’t for me.
The coach shoved the door open and disappeared into the bustling hallway. I pulled off my skate, and even though I had already dumped out my hockey bag, I ran my hands around it one more time, praying that my fingertips would find my coin.
The mood in the dressing room was somber as we all showered and packed up our gear.
Tanner cleared his throat and stood. “Coach was right,” he said.
“About what?” Mike Ryan, one of the defensemen muttered.
“Everything.” Tanner’s voice was stern. “Leo played his heart out today and deserves to be recognized.” I looked at Tanner, waiting for him to acknowledge my goals, but he continued, “We didn’t play as a team, and Dylan Moss is a selfish prick.”
A couple of the guys laughed, and most of the team nodded their heads in agreement. “But we did win tonight. We ARE going to win this exhibition series.” The mood in the room started to lift as players nodded and a couple clapped in agreement. Tanner stood in the center of the room, still in his hockey pants. “Leo’s going to run the practice on Sunday but tonight we’re going to celebrate this win – as a team.” He clenched his fists at his side and then raised one into the air. “Got it?” he shouted.
“Got it,” A couple of the guys replied.
“Got it?” Tanner growled loudly.
The team erupted in cheers, “GOT IT.” Mike started with the guttural O at the beginning of the Otters’ chant that rhymed with the song Day-O. I followed suit, soon the room was humming along with Tanner, “Ooooootters,” he shouted and the rest of us mirrored it back. He shouted it again, this time louder and the rest of us stood up. “Ooooootters.” Anyone standing on the other side of the door would’ve heard the chanting, and I sure hoped that Coach Covington was still there.
“Afterparty at Fitzy’s place,” Tanner smiled and glanced over at me. I shrugged and then nodded. Most of the guys lived at the Laketown Hockey Academy training camp dorms, but a few of us were cottagers and stayed at our own places, and a couple of townie kids still lived at home. My dad never came to the cottage, so my place just happened to be the fallback for all the parties. “Come on guys, let’s go blow off some steam. You heard the coach...” he paused dramatically, “team-building.”
The rest of the team cheered and clapped. Tanner was a natural-born leader and he was right; we could all blow off a bit of steam. I just hoped that the scout saw my goals and that this team building celebration was only the beginning of a series of celebrations for me. After I showered and got dressed, I picked up my hockey bag and it gaped open just after I had zipped it shut. I fingered the zipper pull and saw that it was broken. I sighed and carefully pulled the straps over the shoulder of my suit jacket. Tanner lingered by the door, while the rest of the team filed out of the dressing room. He is waiting for me so he could be the last one to leave. As my bag jostled against the frame of the door, the nylon strap slipped from my shoulder and all of my hockey equipment spilled to the floor in a heap.
“Really, Fitzy?” Tanner groaned.
“Zipper’s busted,” I said and dropped the now floppy bag to the ground to shove my equipment back into it. Leo didn’t realize that I wasn’t following behind him and the door dropped heavily against my ass, knocking me directly onto the pile of my equipment.
Tanner bent to help me up. I groaned as I rolled off the pile of sweaty hockey gear, my toe throbbing inside my brown dress shoes. “What’s going on with you man?” he laughed as we stuffed the gear into my broken bag. I didn’t dare tell Tanner that with one game left against the Predators, I had lost my lucky coin. Out of all the guys, he was probably the most superstitious of all. If he knew I lost my coin, it would play with his psyche, the way it was wreaking havoc with mine.
Chapter 7 – Jessie
My alarm sounded and I patted my nightstand in the dark, trying to find my phone. I squinted at the bright screen, ready to press snooze once, but the red button wasn’t there.
It took me a minute to realize that I wasn’t looking at my alarm, it was a phone call. What the hell was Paige doing calling me in the middle of the night?
I accepted the call, resting the phone between my ear and my pillow. “Paige,” I murmured.
“Jessie, I’m so sorry,” she said as she slurred her words. Paige was drunk. “You’ve gotta come get me.”
“Where are you?” I asked sitting up, bleary-eyed.
“I don’t know. Jessie, you’ve got to come and get me. There was a fight and Dylan is...”
As I swung my feet out of the bed, my heart started to race. Middle of the night phone calls were never good – the last one had been to tell me my parents were dead. “Where’s Dylan?” I shoved my feet into my Birkenstocks, pulled a sweatshirt from my closet, zipping it up over the wifebeater tank top that I wore to bed, and tightened the string on my cotton pajama shorts.
“I don’t know.” A bubble had formed in her throat.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” I grabbed the keys from the bowl by the door and rushed to the Volvo.
“He... there was a fight,” she was full-on sobbing.
“You said that already, Paige. Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”
I heard a fumbling and rustling and then a male voice came on the line. “The address? The voice seemed to be talking to Paige before it redirected itself back to the phone conversation. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I shoved the key into the ignition and pumped the gas. “What’s going on?”
“Your friend needs a ride. Do you know where Mustang Point Road is?”
I nodded as the car growled to life. I pushed the gas one more time and revved the engine - the other trick to keeping it running.
“Hello?”
I realized that I had nodded. “I know where it is.” I glanced in the rear-view mirror and reversed the car out of the driveway.
“It’s number ten-ten.”
“Ten-Ten Mustang Point Rd. Got it,” I slammed the car into gear and accelerated toward the lake. “Is everything okay? What’s going on?”
