“Come on, guys—if I have to start another fight I’m going to get a bad reputation,” I say, hoping to make a joke.
“And I could use a little help out there.” Simon LaCroix, our starting goalie since Karl Martensson retired last season, lumbers to his feet.
“We can do it,” Anton says firmly as everyone slowly stands. “If we believe in ourselves. I know this feels like some Hallmark Channel motivational bullshit but think about where you want to be next week: On the golf course or on the ice.”
“And I fucking hate golf.” Jamie Teller is one of our assistant coaches, and he’s been leaning against the wall this whole time, watching and waiting. For what, I’m not sure, but his comment makes us all laugh.
“Same,” I say. “And I want to tell you something.” I take a breath, hoping I’m not betraying my wife. But I need the kind of support I can only get in this room. It’s something we don’t talk about as pro athletes, but it’s understood. It’s part of us. The brotherhood of a team.
So I’m going to lean into it.
“My wife is pregnant. Because of her breast cancer battle a decade ago, there are health issues that could be tricky. Hell, we didn’t even think she could get pregnant. So far, she’s fine, but that’s the reason we haven’t announced it. And I’ll be honest—it’s fucking with my head. I’m sorry if I haven’t been as present as I should have been, but it’s been really fucking hard to focus. We haven’t told anyone because even though there haven’t been any issues, there are risks. So if I’ve been off my game, that’s why. It’s not an excuse, but my reality. I’m not looking for sympathy, I’m just…” I blow out a breath. Why am I telling them?
“We’ve got your back,” Anton says quietly, as if he understands that I’m struggling to articulate what I’m feeling. “Balancing what’s going on at home with what happens on the ice is the hardest thing about what we do. That’s why we’re always here for each other.”
“Congratulations,” Jamie says, coming over and shaking my hand. “I’m happy for you and Lexi. Anything you need, no matter what happens tonight, don’t hesitate to call.”
I’m suddenly surrounded by my teammates, with congratulations and well wishes, hugs and fist bumps. More than that, words of encouragement. Camaraderie. A unity that hasn’t been prevalent the last few games.
“I say we win this one for Baby Häagen-Dazs,” Tore says, grinning at me.
He knows how much I hate the nickname.
But I’m suddenly a lot less opposed to it.
Almost like it has new meaning.
“Yes!” Anton nods enthusiastically.
Then he puts out his fist.
“Who’s in? Who’s going to go out there and win this one for the newest baby in the Sidewinders family?”
“Yeah!” Every fist in the room is one on top of the other.
We can do this.
For Baby Häagen-Dazs.
Chapter Eleven
Lexi
* * *
The crowd in L.A. is fired up when we take the stage. It had been a long day driving in from Vegas just in time to do our sound check, get a quick bite to eat, and then start the show. I was dragging a little after we ate, but now that we’re ready to go, the adrenaline is surging through me.
I feed on the energy of the audience, so hearing them yelling for us gets me in the zone.
Crimson Edge had been amazing, and they’re still hyped up, milling around backstage as their roadies start loading out their equipment. Sasha is running around talking into her headset, and I can feel the buzz of excitement.
This is technically the start of the tour.
All of us have been headliners individually or with other projects, but this will be our first time headlining and I can’t wait. The new single, “Hit It Like It’s Yours,” was number one last week, so we’re planning to start the show with it. It’s hot right now, and we want to pull the audience in right away.
“Thirty seconds!” Lance, our tour manager, yells.
Tyler grabs his bass and swings it back and forth, while Stu jogs in place. Bash slips behind the curtain to get onto his drum set. He’s always the first one out, and as soon as his tech gives him the signal, he’ll start a slow, thunderous beat on the bass drum.
