Trade rumors are the worst. You never know if there's something to them. You never know when you'll be told to pack your bags, it's time to move across the country. Maybe you'll go to Phoenix. Maybe you'll go to Canada. Who knows.
So I didn't sleep a wink, and first thing at 10 AM, we've got a morning skate before the game tonight.
At least I'm not the only tired looking guy at the skate. Back-to-back games are tough on the body. They're even worse when travel is thrown into it. Coach probably should've made this morning skate optional, but I'm not going to question his decision making. If the team is thinking about trading me, I gotta keep a low profile.
Still, I keep waiting for the hammer to drop. I pass the GM Doug Johnson in the arena hallway, and he says hi, good morning, acts totally normal. I flinch and grumble out a greeting. Coach Stevens doesn't act any differently, either.
What can ya do. Just part of the business. Put your head down and work.
The game starts at 6:30. I manage to take a nap before the game, but I'm still running on fumes when the puck is dropped.
Seeing your captain drag his ass can have a negative effect on the team. After all, I'm supposed to be the guy that leads by example. But tonight, my example sucks. I'm playing hesitant and disinterested. It's hard to play with heart for a team that wants to give up on you.
I'm turning away from hits and avoiding the dirty areas of the ice. I know I'm doing it, not intentionally, but I can't stop it anyhow. It requires a certain mood to willingly take physical abuse. You gotta have a reason to take it. And tonight, I don't have a reason.
Thankfully, we've got Dufresne. And even though he got destroyed by Donovan yesterday, you wouldn't know it by his play on the ice tonight.
Fresno is the yin to the team's yang. He's a streaky scorer, and when he scores – he scores a lot. The puck goes in the net for him in bunches. But, as I've started to notice in recent years ... Fresno plays well when the team is bad. When we're playing a solid team game, it's Fresno that disappears. Some nights, when we win, you wouldn't even know he took the ice. He's that invisible.
It's strange how that works. As much as I love my roommate, I've started to worry that this is becoming the norm with him. It really seems like something in his personality, part of his psychology. He needs a team to need him before he plays well.
Tonight, though, I can't criticize him for it. Because it's my game that sucks, and Fresno is the one making up for it. He's doing the things he normally won't do when we're playing well.
He's stepping up to hits. He's playing physical in the corners, grinding it with hulking defenseman – massive guys who have a few inches and more than a few pounds on him.
After his shift, as we suck for air on the bench, he yells at us and spits. Trying to get us motivated.
“Tabernac! Come on, you guys! Fight for it out there!”
We hang our heads in shame, cursing ourselves to do better on our next shift – so Fresno won't be the only guy doing the heavy lifting. But something blocks us. Something prevents us from ever getting it together. We defer to Fresno. And so Fresno is our best skater all over the ice, all night.
We watch as he scores a pair and sets up two more. I get one of the goals, but he did all the work – all I had to do was put my stick on the ice, and he practically shoots the puck off my stick and into the net.
Despite our team play, and because of Fresno's individual efforts, we end up winning the game, 4-2.
After the game, we undress in the visitor's dressing room. The room takes on its post-victory atmosphere – which is a total 180 from the stale and stuffy funeral-vibe that clouds the room after a loss. Instead, we're chattering and laughing, making jokes and rehashing the highlights of the game.
But even though we've won, and guys are happy, there's still an underlying feeling ... a feeling that we didn't deserve this victory. I look around the room and I can see almost everyone else understands that. Yet, Fresno doesn't. He's glowing. I mean glowing. Hell, I can't blame him – he's just played a great game and willed the team to victory, after all. The national media will be talking about what a stellar night he's had. And he deserves that.
But some part of me wishes that he fit in with this team better. That he didn't need us to be bad in order for him to be good.
Who knows. Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe it's all in my head.
Hell, maybe this won't be my problem at all in a few days – when I'm traded.
***
THE BOYS WANNA HEAD out to celebrate after the game. We find an upscale-looking sports bar and grill downtown. Most of the guys opt for a steak, or burger and fries. I spring for a salad with salmon. I try to eat a little lighter during the season.
I'm uncharacteristically quiet during our meal. For some reason, it feels like this is my last meal with the team. I still can't stop thinking about that phone call I overheard. Of course, I can't tell any guys why I seem so distant, either.
After dinner, some guys head back to the hotel. The rest want to stay behind and grab a few drinks at the bar and watch the hockey games on TV. Since I'm dead tired, I wanted to go home, too – but then again, this might be my last time hanging out with the team. I decide to stay and have a couple beers.
The Jets game is about to start. They're back home in Winnipeg and they're playing Calgary. The TV guys are talking about the starting lineups. They show the Jets' lines, and I notice right away something isn't right.
“No Jones?” I mumble to the guy next to me, not sure who it is. I take a look. It's the rookie d-man, McNabb.
“Guesso?” he smiles.
“I don't think he got hurt ...” I trail off, trying to remember if Jones finished his game against us or not. But, no, I remember him being out on the ice until the end. If he got hurt, it must've been something they didn't notice 'til late.
Donovan roars with glee. “I hope he's hurt! I hope he broke somethin'!”
The broadcasters finally make note of the curious absence. “And Callan Jones will not be in the lineup tonight. Jets team officials have said he is a healthy scratch and will be out indefinitely. No further word on that development yet ...”
“A healthy scratch indefinitely!” Donovan roars with laughter and knocks back the rest of his frosty mug of beer. “Sounds like he finally pissed in the wrong guy's cornflakes, eh boys?”
The line of players sitting at the bar nod approvingly and laugh and grumble and make comments.
“Eh, serves him right.” “Wonder what he did?” “Fuck that cunt.”
I watch the Jones-less Jets until my eyelids are too heavy. Then I say bye to the guys and head back to the hotel.