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After our loss to the Jets at home, our night gets worse. We don't even have time to kick back, relax, and forget about the game. Instead, we leave the arena and immediately hop on the the team bus, which will take us to the airport. We're going on a multi-game road trip, and we've got a red-eye flight to Florida in just a few short hours.
Although it's hard for the family guys to leave their wives and children behind, for me, it's not such a big deal. I don't have much but a hotel room, after all, which is exactly where we'll be staying on the road.
And road trips can be fun. It's a good way for the team to get closer. We get to eat out every night and explore the cities together. On the road, each player has a roommate – a guy he stays in a hotel room with. My roommate has been Dufresne for the past six years.
When I board the bus, I'm thinking I might be staying in a room by myself on the road. Because we still don't have any word on Fresno's health.
We're worried he might have had a concussion, or broken a rib or something like that. But just before the team bus pulls out of the parking lot, we get a surprise – the bus doors re-open for a last straggler, and Fresno hops on.
The team breaks into a cheer. It's the first time we've smiled all night, actually.
Fresno walks down the aisle towards his spot in the back of the bus. Everyone's yelling, making jokes, slapping his butt and punching his shoulder as he walks by. Fresno icily walks right by Donovan, giving him a mean-ass scowl. The bus murmurs, and we're all worried that we might have some bad blood developing between these two.
But then Fresno quickly whips around and puts Donovan in a head-lock and gives him a 'noogie.' Everyone lets out a breath of relief and laughs.
“Calisse!” Fresno swears in his thick French-Canadian accent. “How could I ever stay mad at this ugly brute!”
Everyone cracks up.
“You sure you're alright, Fresno?” Donovan asks. “I was worried about ya.”
“Never been better! Now if only you could hit the other guys that hard for once ...”
Fresno takes his seat next to me. He's a little sore but he swears that he's not banged up, that he only had the wind knocked out of him.
The bus gets us to the airport in short order. We all board the team plane in a hurry, tired and cranky and with a long night still ahead of us. On the plane, the laptops and tablets come out, the ear-buds go in, and some of the guys play a golf video game against each other over a network. Some of the older guys have resisted technology and sit in a group, playing a poker game instead. Some guys try to catch some sleep.
I'll join the guys playing the card game. I'm still too wound up to sleep, and staring at a screen for too long hurts my eyes. It's good guy time and hockey rarely comes up. When hockey does come up, the conversation is a bitter rehashing of the game we just played against the Jets. The guys shake their head, still fuming about Jones and muttering about what a punk he is.
“He's good at what he does,” is all I can say with a shrug anytime they get too fired up.
“Yeah, well, no one's doubting that ... doesn't make him any less of a disgrace, though ...”
***
AT 3 AM, WE FINALLY arrive in Florida and check into a hotel near the Panthers' arena – our next opponent. Our team fills up a whole wing of the hotel's top floor. With heavy eyes and a delirious fatigue setting in, I'm all too happy to finally be 'home.'
Me and Fresno bust into our hotel room, take off our suits and jump into our separate beds, relieved that the night is finally over. Fresno – a real pro sleeper – starts snoring within minutes. I'm jealous. It always takes me 30 minutes or so to get to the point where I can sleep, even when I'm dead tired.
And 30 minutes later, with my mind halfway between the real world and the dream world, I realize I kinda-sorta have to take a piss. I know I can ignore it, but then I'll just have to wake up in an hour or two anyway. So I climb outta bed and head into the bathroom.
Right before I flush, I hear a voice through the wall. I feel like I can make it out. And then I could swear that I hear my name spoken.
I step closer. Put my ear on the wall and listen. The voice is quiet, but I can start to make it out.
“... Vance? ... Vance is what you want? ... Well, maybe we can work something out ...”
My stomach flops as I recognize the voice, one room over. It's our General Manager, Doug Johnson. And he's talking about me.
I have a strong urge to bang on the wall and say, Hey Dougie! I can fuckin' hear you over here!
But morbid curiosity gets the best of me.
He's bringing my name up at 3 AM ... I know this can't be good. I tell myself I should just go back to bed. That I don't wanna know why he's talking about me. What if he's throwing my name out there in a trade?
Against my better judgment, I stay with my ear against the wall and listen.
“Why the hell are you even offering him? He's tearing it up this year. ... Uh huh ... Sure ... That soon? Really. How many teams are in it? ... Already? Really? You trying to start a bidding war here?”
Sounds like someone from around the league is about to be traded. And I might be traded for him.
I've heard enough. I don't wanna know anymore. I ball my fists and manage to pry myself away from the wall. I'd rather not know all the details. Even though I feel like I already know too much.
I throw myself back in bed. But I know I'm not gonna get any more sleep tonight. Now I'm too worked up, waiting for the call from the General Manager that says I need to pack my bags and get going.