What the fuck just happened?
Zoe and I are similar: pragmatic, sensible, and hard working. If I had imagined our split, it would be something civilized, like the way Lauren and I broke up. But Zoe’s emotional side is a mystery to me.
So here I am, driving out of Shelburne with a packed suitcase and nowhere to go. I head to the hockey house, then call Wags.
“What’s the emergency?” he asks.
“How did you know?” I say.
“Fuck, Goody, nobody phones unless it’s urgent. Or you’re my mother.”
“Well, could I be your non-road roomie too?” I ask.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Zoe and I broke up. So, I’m no longer welcome under the Meyers roof.”
“Fuuuuuck.” He injects surprise and sympathy into the single word. “Where are you?”
“Parked outside.”
I can see him look out his window onto the street. “C’mon up.”
When I walk in, Briggs is gaming on the living room couch along with Meysy. Meysy takes one look at my suitcase and asks, “Shit. Did Zoe fuck things up?”
“It’s a long story.” I’ll never speak badly of Zoe. Besides, how can I explain something I still don’t understand?
Wags, being a senior, has a bigger bedroom. He’s already arranging a foam mattress in one corner when I get there. He gives me the half-hug/half-shoulder slap that guys use to express sympathy.
“Thanks, man. It’s just for a few days, until I can find a new place to live.” Maybe I should have stayed in a hotel, but I don’t want to be alone right now.
“Stay as long as you like. I already know you don’t snore. I mean, the couch in the living room might be more comfortable, but it gets pretty busy in there.”
I sit in his desk chair and spin around. In addition to Moo U posters and swag, Wags has also got a photo of the women’s hockey team on his wall. I see Zoe’s smiling face and sigh.
“You want to talk about it?” Wags asks.
“Honestly, I’m not sure what happened. But I don’t feel like it’s my fault.” That’s my only consolation. It’s not like I screwed up in some huge way. The things I wanted to do with Zoe were all good things: take her out someplace nice, have time alone, give her a break from chores. But she didn’t want that. Obviously my money triggered something for her. I do feel awful that Zoe is upset, but I also feel helpless in the face of her problems.
Wags doesn’t argue this with me, although I’m sure he can’t believe I’m blameless.
Once we go to bed, the darkness makes me feel chattier.
“I don’t understand women,” I say.
He grunts. “Can’t help you there.”
“I feel like it’s not really me she’s mad at. But I’m the easiest target.”
“Maybe she’ll calm down, and you guys will get back together.”
“Maybe.” Zoe has a temper, lashes out, and then regrets it. It feels like there’s so much she’s not telling me—she’s a closed book. If she talked more, maybe I could reach her better. I can’t help worrying about her. She has friends, yet she keeps her real problems locked up.
When I really examine our personal dynamics, I could have done more. I know Zoe has insecurities, yet I pretended it wasn’t a big deal. I avoid talking about relationships and feelings, yet that’s exactly what she needed to hear. Maybe if I showed Zoe how important she is to me, then we wouldn’t be where we are right now: broken up and living in separate places.
On Friday, we’ve got a home game against Northeastern.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how big this game is,” Coach Keller says beforehand. “Winner takes sole possession of first place in Hockey East.” We’ve had a good season so far, but beating Northeastern tonight feels like the first step in our journey to the Frozen Four. There’s a bit of nervousness among my teammates. Nothing like pressure to make us all grip our sticks a little tighter.
After the warm-up, I can tell my focus is not what it should be. Worry about Zoe is at the back of my mind. She was in such bad shape when I left. Even though she told me to leave, maybe I should have stayed. How can I find out if she’s okay without actually talking to her? Too bad I can’t message Rocky.
I go over to Wags. “Do you have Rocky’s number?”
“I wish. Why?”
“I want to find out if Zoe’s okay,” I say.
“Coach’ll kill you if he finds you on your phone.” This is true. After Murph got caught messaging his girlfriend between periods, our head coach laid down the law: all phones away a half hour before and during games.
Still, I need to clear my head to be at my best tonight. I sneak my phone into the can and message Helen.
Is Zoe okay tonight?
Then I wait an agonizingly long time for a reply. Coach G calls into the bathroom, “Goodwin. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Coming right out,” I say.
I wash my hands even though all I’ve done is text. I run back to the dressing room and grab my helmet and gloves. Before I stow my phone, I steal one last look. Nothing.
The first two periods are a close, tight-checking contest. We’re fighting for every inch out there. The Huskies manage to get two goals past Briggs, one of them happening on my shift when a miscommunication with Meysy meant that a forward was left unchecked in front of the net.
“C’mon, guys. We’re better than this,” J.D. urges us during the break before the third. He’s the kind of captain who leads by example rather than making big speeches.
Then Coach Garfunkle steps up. He says it’s a mental thing, and we’re all trying too hard. He starts delivering one of his patented Zen koans on overcoming desire.
“Not desiring is the way to achieve our desires. Otherwise the goal we are chasing recedes further each time we move,” he says.
Vonne shakes his head. “What we desire is three goals in the Huskies’ net.” But he doesn’t say it loud enough for the coach to hear.
Not that I don’t appreciate Zen philosophy, but Coach G’s command that we all “close our eyes and find our centers” is a chance for me to check my phone.
There are two messages from Helen:
Why wouldn’t she be? She’s playing tonight and I’m not.
WAIT! Did you guys break up???
I stash my phone. Zoe’s fine, and I need to focus on beating Northeastern.
The normally chill Meysy is looking nervous. Hell, nobody wants to be the scapegoat in an important game. I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Just win the next shift,” I say. It’s trite advice, but for me it’s the best way to focus when I’m anxious. I can’t control whether we win or lose, all I can do is play my hardest for the next 60 seconds.
Hunts hears me and nods. He passes on the same message to his D partner, Murph.
Meysy and I skate out for a face-off in our own zone.
“You go net front. I’ll cover 24,” I say. He’s their go-to winger with a deadly release. When the Huskies win a face-off, they send the puck straight back to him. It’s a set play, but it’s not happening this time.
Wags loses the face-off, and sure enough the puck is heading towards 24, but I intercept it. There are two options now: Scovy streaking down the far boards or Vonne behind me. I take the safe play and make a no-look pass back. Vonne takes off with Wags. I follow and position myself on the point. Vonne is driving towards the goal, but with two Huskies defensemen there, he takes the puck behind the net. Once Vonne gets double-teamed, he throws the puck back to me. I’ve got time and space, so I unleash a slapshot that heads towards the bodies jostling in front of the net. Wags tips the shot over the shoulder of the Huskies goalie.
Goal!
We rush over to embrace Wags. As we skate to the bench for fist bumps, he says to me, “We’ve got a psychic connection, roomie.”
“Jesus. I want no connection to your fucked-up brain.” But we’re both grinning.
Coach Keller smacks us on the backs. “Good goal, boys.”
The goal energizes us. Our shifts are high energy, and we’re trapping Northeastern in their zone. After they ice the puck, Coach puts out Roser’s line. Roser wins the draw and sends the puck to J.D. who one-times it. Their goalie saves it, but there’s a rebound and a scramble in front of the net with four guys battling. The puck bounces off the Huskies defenseman and goes in.
Tie game.
We leap up in celebration, but part of me is empathetic. Every defenseman has done something like that in his career, and it feels like shit.
Northeastern is reeling now, and we keep attacking. When Scovy draws a crosschecking penalty from the same poor bastard who scored the own goal, it feels like our moment.
As I sail out with the first power play, Scovy smirks on his way back and says, “Go get ’em, boys.” I know beyond a doubt that he goaded that d-man into the penalty, probably taunting him about the own-goal. That’s why you have to keep your cool. Guys will say shit about your family, your girlfriend, your play, all to make you mad. I often hear how much I suck compared to my dad.
Sure enough, as we’re getting in position for the faceoff, some asshole tells me he fucked my girlfriend last night. Since my girlfriend is both in Massachusetts and not my girlfriend anymore, I’m not offended. I’m not even going to think about Zoe because it will only distract me.
Wags wins the puck, and we start passing it around the perimeter, looking for gaps. I play with the puck and feint moving in, drawing a Huskies forward to me. Then I pass the puck to Vonne, who sends it through the crease. J.D. is right there and makes no mistake.
3—2.
J.D. slides on his knees in an ecstatic goal celly, and we pile on him. But only for a moment, because we’ve still got two minutes to play.
Northeastern calls a time-out, and Coach Keller comes down the defense end of the bench.
“Hunts, Goody. I’m putting you guys out there as a shut-down pair.”
We nod. We’ve hardly played together all season because we’re similar defensive players and we’re both good. Coach usually keeps the D pairings balanced.
We skate out. I go back to our zone and tap Briggs on the pads. “Got the A Team out here for you. Let’s shut the door on these guys.”
Briggs nods. He hasn’t had a ton of action in this period, so hopefully he’s still sharp.
Northeastern wins the face-off, and as soon as they’re deep in our zone, their goalie comes off for an extra attacker. Then we’re trapped. They’re pouring it on, taking shot after shot. We’re blocking shots, and Briggs is making saves until J.D. finally gets the puck and skates it out of our zone, he aims for the empty net, but a Huskies player gets there first. Our forwards change, but Hunts and I are stuck out there. I’m too busy to even look up at the clock, so I’m grateful when someone calls out, “Ten seconds left.”
I’m battling a forward in front of the net when a shot whizzes by me. It’s headed straight for the top corner, but my stick is tied up and I can’t deflect it. I watch the puck go by me in slow motion towards the net. And just as slowly, I see Brigg’s glove come out and snag it.
There’s the blessed sound of the buzzer. The home crowd goes crazy for our comeback win, and the team pours onto the ice to congratulate Briggs.
I’m exhausted, and I’ve got new bruises all over my body, but I feel great. We’re on a high as we make our way to the room. While winning always feels good, winning as a team—when everyone contributes—is the absolute high.
My high lasts until I go to bed. In the darkness, I stare at the nondescript ceiling and think about how hockey alone isn’t enough anymore.