“He pissed me off,” I grunt.
“Hey, Häagen-Dazs, who pissed in your corn flakes?” Tore asks once we’re in the locker room.
I hate that nickname, and he knows it.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
“Zaan.” Coach Wylde looks less than impressed with me, and I hate being the problem child. He also rarely calls us by our first names. Which means he’s more disappointed than pissed off.
Great.
Now I feel like a kid again.
“Sorry, Coach,” I say. “Lost my temper.”
“You know better.” He gives me a pointed look, but then his gaze travels around the room.
His disappointment is palpable.
“I guess you’re all looking forward to golfing this summer, huh? Because I don’t see anyone out there who looks like they want to play hockey for another few weeks. Or who wants to win a fucking championship.”
No one says anything.
“This is it, boys. If we lose tonight—and we are fucking losing right now—it’s basically over. Technically, with some skill and heart and determination, we could still pull this off. But you have to want it. There’s nothing else I can say at this point. You either want it or you don’t. And when we go back out there, you’re going to show me which one.” He turns and walks out of the room.
Dead silence follows him.
Finally, Anton stands up.
He’s our team captain, and I can tell he’s struggling to come up with some kind of motivational speech.
I don’t envy him the job.
“I should be pissed off,” he says after a moment. “But fuck if I know what to say. I don’t think ripping you a new one is going to work. Not this time. The only thing that’ll work is us—every last one of us—digging deep. We, collectively, need to figure out who we are and who we want to be. Today, tomorrow, going forward.
“We don’t need to pull a rabbit out of a hat or pray for a miracle or anything else. We just need to play the game that we’ve been playing all season. Leave the fights with your wives, your sick grandmothers, and the new tires you need to put on your cars. The only thing you need to think about tonight is going out there and showing them who we are. If we can do that, we can keep this series alive and go home for one more game.”
“We can do this,” Tore says, standing up. “Who’s with me?”
Fuck.
I know I should stand up.
I know I should have his back.
I just can’t find any fucks to give.
“At least Häagen-Dazs took one for the team,” Anton continues.
If my pent-up frustration brings something good to the room, so be it.
“We’ve got this.” Nate Calloway, a quiet, softspoken guy who’s been on the team a long time, gets to his feet.
“Fuck yeah, we do.” Jean-Michel “Van” Vander is next. “Why the fuck are you assholes sitting down? Stand the fuck up!”
I’m the next one to stand.
Despite the distractions and worries tickling my subconscious, I really do want to be in the moment. For my team and my teammates.
