“I don’t know how much clearer I can be with you, Parker. But the team needs you. You were the top scorer last year by a runaway. And I get it. I do. You’ve been through a lot at a young age—” (translation: sucks your dad died) “—but you’re nearing the backside of your prime in hockey years. So whatever hole you’re trying to fill doing this, figure it out fast or bury it. I don’t care. But if you keep doing shit like this, I will have to bench you for a few games.”
“Got it. Anything else?” I ask, resting my hands on the arms of the chair and pushing up.
“Unfortunately, yes. The League has issued warnings to both teams before today’s game. Because of Piotrowski and your history, and then this damn video, they’re keeping a tight leash on the game to prevent an all-out brawl like last year. So, if either of you try anything that isn’t an appropriate hockey move, they’ll be quick with an ejection and suspension.”
Shit. Well, I’m stuck with this pent-up frustration for longer. Neat.
I stand, pulling down my sweater. “So, don’t hit the bastard. Got it. Anything else?”
Coach regards me with unwavering skepticism. “I’m serious, Jack. The team needs you. No retaliating. As much as I understand you wanting to. We need you to keep your emotions in check and be a team player today.”
You would have been too emotional, half-pint. He couldn’t handle that.My sisters’ words to me after my father passed play in my mind.
I’ve had to dance around my dad too much today. I need to get out on the ice and clear my damn mind.
“Yeah. Team player. No emotions. Got it. I can do that.”
ChapterSix
Jack Parker
Play:Dirty Water by the Standells
The artificial wintry air of the rink wraps a welcoming hand around me. We’ve played on our home ice plenty of times in the past few weeks getting ready for today, but opening night has a different feel. There’s a certain excitement, that vibrates through the stadium, like everyone knows this is a day to shake off last season and focus on the new one, full of hope and possibilities. I inhale, letting the chill of the freshly laid Garden ice flood my airways and enter my veins. The deafening roar of the crowd quiets my mind. Logan Sloan, the opposing New York center, glides into the face-off position in the middle of the ice, and I do the same.
We nod to each other. Sloan’s a well-respected player in the league, and I’d be okay that he finally got his name on the cup if it didn’t mean that it came at my great expense. Still, he showed how classy he was after the series, sending me a gift basket full of recovery tools and a “see you next year” card.
That being said, the man is more than a few years off his prime—and I have the highest winning face-off percentage in the league, so there’s no way I’m losing this drop.
“How’s the leg, Jackass?” Alex’s nauseating voice sounds over Sloan’s shoulder.
Of course, he’s on the ice now.
Since we’re the home team, Coach could have paired our lines differently. Maybe put the fourth line out first to face Alex, and then it would have taken a while to get a match-up between us. But apparently, he’s not interested in making this easy for me.
Maybe he’s punishing me for coming to practice hungover.
I swallow the anger bubbling and channel my attention to the official raising the puck for the drop. Blinking lights slowly dance over the ice. The loud stadium music fades. The ref drops the puck, my stick finds it first, and last year falls away.
The first five minutes of the period pass with little excitement. The puck slides up and down the ice as bodies check each other, both teams shaking off the rest of the off-season rust. And the crowd quiets from their initial uproar, eager for a new season after our disappointing end last year.
On my third shift, I establish myself in front of the New York net. Alex attempts to push me out of position, but the extra mass I packed on in the off-season catches him off guard, and he loses his footing.
“Leg seems fine.” I smirk.
Coop passes it my way, and I set my stick so it deflects the puck, changing its angle slightly as it heads toward the net. The goalie stretches out last minute and snags it. He grumbles at Alex, still sprawled on the ice, to get into position, and I glide back to the bench with a lightness in my skates.
Maybe I can get my revenge without laying into the bastard, after all.
Two shifts later, I chase a puck to the boards when I hear the furious slash of Alex’s skates behind me. I halt my pursuit on a dime, and Alex, angling for a hit, careens into the boards. The puck inches by him, making him look like the pee-wee player he really is.
Excellent.
Thank you, agility training.
Which, for the record, was definitely not private dancing lessons with Big Ed as part of my rehab over the summer. It was something manly and gruff, like… log rolling?
Wes cuts through the zone, and I pass him the puck. He slams it into the net and scores our first goal. A foghorn sounds over the arena’s sound system, and a choir of “ohs” follows along to our signature after-goal song.
