I blow out a breath. “So they are going after him?”
He pushes his helmet back so his face is no longer covered by the cage, and looks directly at me. “I don’t think they’re trying to injure him, but they’re frustrated. You know how it is.” He nudges me with his padded elbow, then takes a sip of his water. “They all know they can’t compare to the league’s golden boy. And having his dad here reminding them of that isn’t helping.”
I frown. I do know how it is. I’m just as guilty as they are of targeting Connor during regular season play. But he’s my teammate now and I’ve never once gone after a teammate when they haven’t deserved it. That’s against the code.
“And I gotta tell you,” Bouchard says, “it’s only going to get worse when we get to Milan. Connor has a lot of enemies spread out among each country’s teams. Taking him out at the Olympics would be like scoring a hat trick.”
I take a breath and absorb what he’s saying. “They can increase their chances at winning gold, as well as getting into the playoffs back home.”
“And then the Stanley Cup,” Bouchard says. “But that’s assuming they don’t have to face us.” He holds his forearm up to me and I tap it with mine.
“Any suggestions on how we fix this?”
“Getting his dad out of here would be a start.”
“Yeah.” I grimace. “I don’t think that’s happening. I’m pretty sure I’ll get kicked off the team if I send him out of here on a stretcher.”
“Would be fun to see, though.” There’s a smile on his face as he says this like he’s imagining the scene playing out in his head.
I glance towards the rest of the team. They’re all grabbing sips of water out of their bottles scattered around the boards by the benches. All except for Connor, who is stuck talking to a reporter with his father, who has moved away from the black puck mark Iplaced on the glass in front of him to be closer to his son. Most of the team is trying to act like they’re not watching this interaction. I wish Coach would blow his whistle to start practice up again, but I get the sense he knows from experience that doing that will be more trouble than it’s worth.
I look back at Bouchard. “I can keep our opponents in check at the Olympics, but only if I’m not busy making sure my own teammates aren’t trying to sabotage Connor’s career.”
“I think once we get to the actual games, their pride and desire to win will replace their animosity.”
“Yeah, but we still have to get them to want to play well with him if we’re actually going to win those games.”
“Take a play out of the goalie playbook.”
“How?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Have the group work on their splits and butterfly stretches together? I don’t think that’s going to help.”
“No, you ass.” He laughs. “You ever wonder why goalies always room together on road trips?”
“Because you’re all fucking weirdos,” I tease him. “And no one else wants to room with you.”
“Fair point.” He shrugs. “But not what I meant.” He offers me another squirt from his water, and I open my mouth. Then he takes one for himself. “It’s like this. Each team has two, in your words, fucking weirdo goalies, correct?”
“Yes. I know how a team roster works, smartass.”
“You know how the roster works for you puck runners. It’s different for goalies, though.”
“Alright.” I hold my hands up. “I’m listening.”
“It’s like this,” he begins. “You all get rotated in and out through the entire game. Your shift ends and you take a seat on the bench and the next group of guys go out. Around and around you go. In the end, you all—what? Play around eighteen minutes total.”
“More or less.” I shrug.
“Right. You all share ice time. It doesn’t work that way forgoalies. Once Coach says you’re the one in net, you’re in that net the entire game unless something goes catastrophically wrong.”
“Still not following what the lesson here is.”
“I’m getting there,” he says, staring at me, then points his stick down the ice to Olsen, who’s standing in front of the other net, going through his routine of stretches and superstition-based rituals. They somehow lock eyes from across the rink, then raise a gloved hand towards each other. “Every goalie tandem in the league needs to figure out how to both compete with and support each other. It doesn’t do either of us or the team any good if we can’t get along. We compete for that net every game during practice, but we have to be humble enough to be happy for the other one when Coach says it’s his net to mind for the night. If we don’t get along, if we can’t put aside our egos and our bullshit, the entire team suffers.”
“So I need to get the team to see they’re not competing with Connor. That there is plenty of ice to go around.”
“Exactly.” He takes another sip of his water. “It would also help if you could get Connor to come out of his shell a bit.”
I look at Connor, who has been relieved from talking to his father and the reporter. He’s now talking closely with Coach Chris near the bench. “You think he’s shy?”
