Brit
He’s bringing the puck across the blue line, skating toward me with a speed that has me fighting my instincts.
To slow down.
To back up.
To retreat and give him space.
But that’s the wrong move.
One hundred percent the wrong move.
That will give the skater—the potential shooter—far too much space to make trouble for me. Better angles to shoot, more room, more time to make a move and score.
So, I fight that initial instinct and push through, charging out beyond the top of the crease—that semi-circle of blue paint in a rapid flash of motion. The move cuts off his angles, gives him less room to shoot, puts him on his heels a little.
Because all that space he thought he had?
It’s gone.
I don’t watch his hands. Or his face. And I’m only obliquely keeping track of the puck.
I’m locked in on his hips.
Because his hands can fuck around, the stick an extension of them. His shoulders can zig and zag, as he ducks and dodges, attempting to fake me out. But Shakira’s right—the hips don’t lie. He can’t move without them.
And—
That.
Right there.
He leans to the left, but I see the shift in weight before he moves hard to the right.
And I’m ready.
I dig my skate blade into the ice, ready, waiting…
Go!
My side twinges with a sharp slice of pain, protesting against the movement. All the rehab in the world can’t make all of it go away, but I push through. I’m used to pain at this point, used to grinding through, ignoring, playing, living.
Bruises and broken bones.
Cuts and torn muscles.
Fatigue and lungs feeling like they’re going to explode.
And still…finding a way to play hockey.
I cut hard to the side, waiting until he’s close, knowing he’s committed to the move, making sure if he can transition to a shot—and he damned well can, because these guys are good, fucking great, and they can switch between a move, a shot, a pass, and back again in an instant—it won’t be a good one.
Because I’m good.
I’m fucking great.
So, I can hang with him. I can transition. I can handle whatever he throws at me.
Which is a doozy—cutting hard back to the center, making me scramble to mirror his movements. My side is a wildfire of sensation, of protests and anger and pain and frustration.
But I’m here, and I’m living and pushing through and—
I grunt as I dig my skate in, as I wrench myself in the other direction as he cuts sharply back the other way.
Calm.
Calm.
Don’t panic. Stay centered. Stay facing the puck. Stay up. Stay ready and—
“Now,” I whisper, whipping to the side, jabbing my stick forward, forcing him to move. To shoot.
When I’m ready.
And I am.
I watch his weight shift, and I’m moving before the puck’s even left his stick, swinging my arm up, glove open, ready, waiting—
Smack!
The puck hits my palm, the sting reverberating up my arm, into my shoulder, but my hand’s closing, holding tight to that disc of vulcanized rubber.
No fucking chance of dropping it, of giving this asshole another chance to score.
I hold tight and wait for the whistle.
Which comes—a sharp trill that echoes through the rink…
A bare heartbeat before the fucker crashes right into me.
I wince as I move into the house, just lifting my foot the six inches to settle it on the top of the step is agony, and it’s just as bad climbing the other two in order to make it inside.
But I get there, turning the handle, pushing the door open, moving into the mudroom.
Backpack on the hook, shoes painfully toed off, my side on absolute fire, but I manage to get them off my feet, get them tucked onto the shoe rack, and then I hobble down the hallway.
I’m getting old.
Not even trainer extraordinaire Mandy and all her magical rehabilitation tricks can change that fact.
She can treat my bruises, can bandage a sore joint, can rehab an injury with the best of them.
But…the wear and tear that comes with playing this sport, with these long seasons, the eighty-two games, the four rounds of playoffs, with…getting older and sliding down the leeward slope of my career—
That’s not something she can fix.
It’s why I retired a few seasons ago, before I was lured back with the promise of just one more.
One more season. One more chance at the Cup. One more year of what I knew before everything changed.
But that season turned into more than one.
And then my chance was almost torn away, that choice almost stolen from me.
And…
I couldn’t let it go.
Now, I’m right back here again.
Hurting. Old. Knowing retirement is looming, all those changes bearing down on me anyway.
Only, what do I have for it?
My name on a silver trophy—three times.
My number likely to soon be hanging from the rafters.
My name in the record books.
And…
What do I have to show for it?
I exhale—the pain not just in my body now, but in my soul, my heart—and start moving down the hall. Food. Sleep. Push it down and keep moving forward.
I walk quietly toward the kitchen, the soft glow of the undercabinet lights I left on shining out, guiding my way.
Because I don’t have someone to leave them on for me.
Not any longer.
Sara—one of my good friends and wife of a former teammate, Mike Stewart (who’s a good friend too)—is doing me a solid by putting Rox to bed, staying with her until I get back, but I know I can’t continue relying on my friends to take turns watching my kid on my custody days.
I need to hire someone.
I need to take responsibility and deal with this shit already.
I just…I just thought that—
Well, I thought it might be a nightmare…one I could wake from. One I could come back from.
Only…
Time has told me that isn’t going to happen.
My eyes sting, but—like usual—I ignore them, ignore the burn, ignore the pain.
Food. Sleep. Roxie. Hockey.
That’s all I’ve got.
I turn, move into the kitchen, and—
The sound that comes out of me is part hurt, part panic, part…hope.
Because Stefan is sitting on that barstool.
The same one he was sitting on when he broke my heart all those months ago.