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The games, practices and travel have all taken their toll on us physically. Fresno's trade has exhausted us mentally. Thankfully, the coach cancels our pre-game morning skate and lets us sleep in.
I'm excited to meet Jones. I'm hoping he has a big game tonight and impresses all his new teammates. He's supposed to touch down in Tampa by noon, so he shouldn't have any problem making our 6 o'clock game.
I'm at the arena a few hours before the game. I'm the first one there, as usual, and I'm doing my pre-game routine. The stick-handling, the Mozart, the stretches and warm-ups. Then the banter with the boys once they start to show up.
Every time a body shows up in that doorway, my heart jumps – is this him? I think excitedly.
But, oh, no. It's not. It's someone else. It's Emerson. Then it's McNabb. Donovan. Brickley. Tanner. So on and so forth.
Game time is getting closer and closer. I'm starting to get nervous. Did his flight get delayed? But if it did, surely Doug would've come in here by now and told us.
At 3:50, every other player on the team has arrived. Jones has a stall in our dressing room, but his stall is the only one that's empty.
Our deadline is 4:00 PM. Anything after 3:59 is considered late.
Every time I look Donovan's way, I see him smiling, looking up at me.
He still has ten minutes, I think to myself. I'm hoping and praying Jones shows up. C'mon Jonesy.
But every time I look towards the door, I see Donovan instead. Still staring at me. Somehow, he knows Jones is gonna be late.
He's still got five minutes, I think desperately.
Then, He's still got three minutes.
Then, He's still got a minute ...
“Aaaaand ...” Donovan stands up, making a big show of staring at his wrist watch.
“Damn it, Jones,” I mutter under my breath. Where the hell are you?
“He's officially late!” Donovan smiles from ear-to-ear the moment his watch hits 4:00 PM.
He walks over to Jones' unoccupied stall and picks up the new guy's skates, which his former team mailed to us overnight after the trade. He shoots me a look as he pulls out his pocket knife. “Team rule is a team rule, Vance. You know that.”
And he's all-too-happy to enforce it. Gleefully, Donovan saws his blade through the laces of Jones' skates. That's the team rule: if you're a minute late, you get your skate laces cut. It's a minor inconvenience, really. The point is more in the message that it sends: we're all here on time, so you better be, too.
Of course, if you're so late that you miss the warm-up skate ... then you're suspended for the game, and you'll have to answer to team management.
“Where the fuck is this guy?” people start to wonder out loud. “He doesn't have much time left.”
Dougie pops his head into the room and looks at me. “Still no sign?”
I shake my head.
“Hm.” He makes a worried frown.
Fuck, I think. It's time for us to take our warm-up skate, and no one's heard anything from Jones. First day with the team, and he's already got himself in hot water.
And I start to think I'm gonna be in deep shit, too. I told Doug I was confident we could get it to work. But what the hell do I know about Jones? Maybe he really is a problem. A locker room cancer. Who the hell starts off like this with their new team?
***
LOSING FRESNO ... GAINING Jones ... Jones not bothering to show up for the game ... all the inner-team turmoil swirling about the room.
It's a perfect recipe for disaster.
We get slaughtered on the ice. The Lightning don't care how bad our night is. They don't care how slow our feet are moving, how we can't make a single clean pass, how we can't even get the puck out of our own zone. They take advantage. They're more than happy to enjoy a great night for themselves. They run the score up for their hometown fans, who have plenty to cheer for as the Lightning trample us.
“Wake the fuck up! Pull your fuckin' heads outta your fuckin' asses already! Shit, boys! You fuckin' suck tonight!” our coach yells at us in the dressing room between periods. He's furious. But he knows there's nothing that can be done about it. Our team has just taken one too many blows in too short of a time.
The only person who seems to be okay with tonight is Donovan. Normally, he'd be right there with the coach, yelling at us to stop sucking so goddamn bad. Tonight, though, he is oddly silent. He does not play with his normal fire. He lets attackers get around him a little too easily.
I know why. Donovan is content to let management suffer their mistake. To let me see what a fool I was to stand up for Jones. He wants it to hurt.
And I have to say, it does. It hurts alright. And I'm starting to see things his way.
The game ends. 9-1. No one speaks after the game. No one speaks on the bus. We head to our hotel rooms and every last door on the wing slams shut, one after another.
Tomorrow is another day. And Jones better be there.
And he better have a damn good excuse.