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“Pst. Hey Cal. Wake up.”
“Mmm.” I groan sleepily. “What time is it?”
“Six AM. We gotta go.”
“This early? The Sun's not even up ...”
“Yeah, man. We gotta get back before the others wake up. Let's go.”
Oh. Right. Hockey.
After the night we had, I almost forgot about the playoffs and all the madness surrounding the team. But that was the point of this little run-away, I suppose.
We take the tent down, pack everything up, and carry it off to the car. Soon we're on the road again, heading back to San Jose to sneak back into the hotel and rejoin the rest of the team.
We're back at the hotel shortly after 7 AM. Donning hats, we scurry through the lobby and make it back to our room without being spotted. We shut the door behind us and change out of our dirty clothes.
Tyler's all smiles about it, too. “That was fun,” he gushes. “I don't think I've broken team rules since like, my first or second year.”
“You're so lame ...” I laugh.
“Hey, I gotta lead by example, y'know? Can't have your captain sneaking off all the time.”
“I'm only kidding you.”
It's a strange, quiet vibe between us. Not a bad one – not at all. It's light and happy. Like there's so much we want to say to each other, only we can't find the words. Maybe it's not yet time.
In a way it kinda sucks that we're roommates. After that magical experience last night, maybe some time apart would be good for us. So we can sit back and smile, and shake our heads with disbelief when we think about what happened.
Instead, we occupy the same small room. And we try to go about our business without getting in the other's way. And as much as I wanna grab him right here and now and tackle him on that bed and suck his dick all over again ... I know I can't. It'd be totally inappropriate.
Because, one, I don't wanna freak him out and scare him off forever by demanding too much. And two, it's time to go back to work. We're professionals and we've got a job to do – Game 7 tonight is kind of a big deal.
We clean up, dress, and get ready for our pre-game prep. First up is the morning skate. Then lunch, pre-game naps, and then we'll gather again at the arena a couple hours before the game.
I breathe a sigh of relief once we climb on the team bus and head off for our morning skate – because our teammates are happy to see us, and no one asks where we were last night.
Nobody suspects a thing. We really got away with it.
***
THE THING ABOUT PLAYING in a Game 7 is that every minute leading up to it feels like an eternity. We want to go out and play now, we want to go and pour our hearts out on the ice and get the damn thing over with.
But we can't, of course. We have to wait. And so each minute rolls by slower than the last, the game filling up more and more of our thoughts until we can't think of anything else.
Which, right now, is something of a blessing. Because it's helping me keep my mind off Tyler. And it's keeping my teammates mind off of the media circus involving my sexuality.
And so the morning skate feels like a time warp. We're all together in that room, but it doesn't quite feel like it. Because every player is actually mired in his own world, right inside his head. You can tell a joke, and before you get a laugh, you get a room full of blank faces slowly looking at you and blinking. Like a pasture of cows.
And then ... one, two, three beats later ... they get it. They laugh.
“Oh, ha ha.”
We're happy when the skate is over. That means its back to the hotel for the next stage of our pre-game anxiety routines. Some guys will go out for lunch, others will order room service. Tyler goes out with McNabb and Tanner for lunch. I stay in and eat a grilled chicken salad from the hotel kitchen.
Tyler comes back shortly after, and it's nap time for us.
Or, what we should actually call 'nap time' before a Game 7 – 'toss and turn in bed for a couple hours time.'
At last our alarm goes off.
“You sleep any?” Tyler asks me, sitting up on the edge of his bed.
“Not a wink. You?”
“Nope.” He hops out of bed and starts dressing. “Big game tonight.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Let's do it.”
***
THE NERVES GROW WORSE and more frantic as you get closer to game time. Truth be told, the entire bus ride to the arena, and all the time in the dressing room as we gear up before the game, is a total blur to me. I'm too psyched out and in the zone.
When we take the ice for warm-ups, the feeling in my stomach is almost unbearable. We go through our stretches, skate in dizzying circles around half the rink, and fire our practice shots at Brickley to get him in the game. But my gut feels absolutely wrecked.
Until the puck drops. As soon as the game starts, it's on. All worries and anxieties are gone. It's time.
We line up for the opening faceoff. McPhee, the Sharks' right winger, gives me a subtle bump as he lines up next me at the circle. He makes a kissy face at me, loudly smooching at the air.
“Well? Is it true, Jones?” McPhee asks.
I stare straight ahead, my eyes locked on Vance as he crouches low to the ice to take the faceoff.
“Huh. Not even gonna deny it?” he chuckles to himself.
I've been expecting this. It's the Sharks' job to get my off my game. They'll be rubbing my face in the drama all night long. I won't respond tonight. All I have to do is focus on my game.
The puck drops. Vance wins the draw cleanly, and I try to break free of McPhee and dash up the left side. But as soon as I jump around him, he slashes at my ankle. The sting makes my foot buckle and I stumble.
“Fuckin' fag,” he says as he skates off.
I grit my teeth. Grr.
But remember, Callan, I tell myself. Focus. Don't respond with words. Respond with your play.
This might be my last NHL game, after all, and I want it to be memorable. Once that puck drops and the jitters go away, I become a man possessed. The Sharks won't leave me alone. After every whistle, someone gets in my face, gay this, fag that, Jones you cocksucker etc., etc.
Some people would have you believe that this kind of language doesn't happen on the ice between professionals. And in the rare cases that someone does say something hateful, he gets fined and suspended.
But I'm telling you that's not reality. Get caught saying it on camera, yeah, you're in trouble. But what happens on the ice stays on the ice, and the refs pretend that they can't hear a thing we say to each other. These words get tossed around all the time – literally every shift. Not that I've ever used them, for obvious reasons.
But now, with Jason spilling details of our night club hookup to the media ... the players actually feel justified calling me them. That the words actually apply to me personally, and aren't just supposed to hurt my feelings.
The Sharks continue to insult me. When they realize that I'm focused, and I'm not gonna retaliate? They start to attack me physically. They throw elbows at my jaw when the ref isn't looking, cross-checks to my kidneys. On and on.
Tyler's always there in the post-whistle scrums, shoving guys away and helping me keep a cool head. He stays in my ear the whole time. “Stay calm. Don't give 'em what they want.”
“I know, Ty, I know. I won't do anything stupid.”
“You're playing great. Keep it up.” He addresses the bench as we hop over the boards. “We got 'em on their heels, boys, keep it up. Good pressure, good pressure.”
It's clear that the Sharks thought they could ruffle my feathers. When I don't give in, they seem lost. Maybe even angry, because their game plan isn't working. And then we start to gain momentum – because we came to play hockey tonight, not make somebody hurt because of rumors that he's gay.
When I've got the puck, two, sometimes even three Sharks players come after me, their eyes full of rage. They wanna crush me, wanna send me to the ice. But that's exactly what I want – I'm a magnet for attention, after all. So I hold that puck, taunting them, daring them, until I draw them towards me. That leaves one of Vance or Nelson open.
And that's how we score our first goal – with two guys on me, and a third chasing, I make a quick pass from down low into the slot. Vance doesn't waste any time, and the puck is off his stick the second it arrives.
I score one and Nelson adds another and we head into the third period leading 3-0. All we've gotta do is play twenty minutes of sound, defensive hockey and protect our lead.
The Sharks come out of the intermission looking like a different team. They're not saying shit to me anymore – instead, they won't look me in the eye. I have to chuckle, because I know their coach must've ripped into them between periods.
To their credit, they're actually skating hard to start the period. But as the minutes tick by, and they can't get their first goal on the board, their motivation begins to wane as reality sets in. They simply waited too long to play the game.
The hometown San Jose crowd slowly starts to trickle out of the arena as the game winds down. When the horn sounds, and we win 3-0, half the arena has already left. The other half quietly watches as the two teams line up to shake hands.
We can't wait to get off the ice and start celebrating. We're going to the Cup Finals.