“How about we have another team barbecue,” he suggests, and immediately everyone brightens.
“But not this weekend,” Coach intercedes before anyone can get too excited. “We need to focus on winning our next three games.”
Max, looking serious, nods. Beside me, Micky is once more looking downcast. Predictably, the mention of the last few weeks of our season doesn’t fill him with the same excitement that it does for the rest of us. This late in the season, winning is more important than ever as we contend for a spot in the Frozen Four, and although we’ve had a good year, wedid lose some games that should have been easy Ws. These, I know, are the ones Micky is thinking of.
As Anthony Lawson strolls off to leave us to practice, I accompany Micky over to his goal. He looks nervous, even though this is just practice and nobody cares how many goals he lets in. As usual, I struggle for something to say. I’m just not good at talking him down or making him feel better. Nothing I say is quite right, and I have no earthly idea what else I’m supposed to do.
Vas follows us over, too, bending to snatch up his gloves from where he’d dropped them on the ice to hold the puppy. He smiles at Micky, as calm and friendly as always. If Vas ever comes to practice with a frown, I’ll know the fucking world is ending.
“I think a puppy is good for us,” he says, and punctuates this with a firm nod. “He will bring us luck.”
“I need it,” Micky replies morosely.
“Oh, I do not think so.” Vas shakes his head and Micky looks at him glumly.
“We have to win the next threegames, Vas. Three! We’ll be lucky to win one with me in net. They need to play Pavel or Roman. They’re a lot better than I am.”
I open my mouth to attempt and inject some verbal sense into him, but Vas beats me to it.
“Let us not worry about three games. Let us only worry about one, yes? We must only focus on the game we are playing, because that is the most important.” Coach Mackenzie skates slowly up behind Vas, pausing when he hears him talking. “When I am missing goals, I do not think about them again. I think about the next time I will have the puck, yes?”
“One thing at a time,” Micky says and earns a smile from Vas.
“Indeed. Do not think about Frozen Four or three games or any such thing. These things do not matter, because we must play the game we are in, first.”
Behind Vas, unbeknownst to him, Coach Mackenzie smiles. When he places a hand on Vas’ shoulder, the other man startles.
“Goodness. I am sorry, sir,” he apologizes. Micky skates backward a few inches, trying to put distance between him and Coach.
“No need to be sorry. That was good advice.”
Vas looks embarrassed but pleased.
“Where do you want us, Coach?” I ask, and his eyes find mine.
“Right here. We’re going to have a little fun today.”
I groan dramatically, which makes Micky chuckle under his breath. Fun at hockey practice usually leaves us sweaty, sore, and exhausted. He probably means it’ll be fun for him because he’ll get to watch us suffer.
“Max, you good?”I yell over the sound of the fans screaming, bending over at the waist and putting a hand on his back, above his breezers. He lifts up so he’s sitting back on his knees, dropping one glove so he can swipe a hand under his visor.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
He rises to standing, and I hand him his stick. I give him a nudge with my elbow as we skate to the bench together.
“The only way to stop you from scoring is to foul you, my friend.”
He laughs and shakes his head, even though I reallywasn’t kidding. Max draws more penalties than any other player on our team, and it’s not hard to puzzle out why. He’s a point machine—scoring twice as much as the next most talented player on the team, and the rest of us have to try three times as hard.
I sit next to Vas on the bench, trying to stretch out my legs as much as possible in the tight space. Vas pats my knee with a gloved hand, the way he always does when someone sits next to him.
“Atlas here?” I ask, and laugh at the look he gives me.
“I do not think we will be seeing Atlas at a hockey game again,” he replies, and even under the incredible noise of the arena, I can hear how fond he sounds of my friend.
Back on the ice, I post up behind the opposing team’s right winger as we take a face-off in our defensive zone. As the strong side defender, I immediately move to position at the top of the circle. Two blocked shots later, one to the inside of my right knee that I know is going to give me hell later, I skate gratefully back to the bench. Coach taps me on the middle of my back with his clipboard as I take a seat, which is his way of sayinggood job, nothing to change.
We win the game by a margin of a single point, put there by Max, naturally, and saving us from having to go into OT. As always, Micky undresses in dejected silence, face glum as he thinks about the five goals he let in. Before I can get over there and pep him back up, Vas steps over and leans in.
