And I can’t lie—a night out with Wes sounds like heaven. When I’d asked him where he wanted to go, he’d replied with, “Doesn’t matter. Out. You and me. We’ll sit at a bar or throw darts or shoot pool.”
“Not pool,” I’d answered. “My fragile ego can’t take that kind of drubbing.”
He’d snickered like a dolphin. “Fine. Whatever you want. The game isn’t the point, anyway. You’re the point.”
I liked the sound of that.
Coach Hal has changed up the lines tonight. He does that sometimes. He has Wes on the second line with Blake and Lukoczik. The starters come out swinging tonight—Eriksson practically mows down the other center after the faceoff. Asthe puck begins its high-speed chase around the rink, I stop thinking about anything else but the game in front of me. My whole world is reduced to these twelve men jockeying for advantage and the weighty little rubber disk that means the world to the eighteen thousand people here tonight.
Wes vaults over the wall for his shift, and I can’t help but lean forward in my seat. Ottawa got the puck back and is playing it safe, coddling the puck like old ladies out for a walk with a prized show poodle. They can’t score this way, but they can frustrate Wes. His shift is over before he gets a chance to make anything happen.
And so it goes for a while, but I never lose interest. Some of my not-so-subtle family members have asked me if I mind being an NHL spectator instead of a player. I really don’t, though I’m not sure they believe me. But I’vealwayswatched hockey, even when the seats weren’t this good. And I skate every day, anyway, with some excellent players.
Life is good. Except for this headache.
Things heat up on the ice. Blake gets a break and sets up an attack. He passes to Wes who slips it right back to him the moment he’s open. Blake flips a wrister at the net, and the goalie just barely gets there in time, poking it out of the air awkwardly with the tip of his glove. But that puck is still in play, so both teams converge.
“GET IT BABY SLAP IT SILLY BRING IT HOME TO MAMA BLAKEYYYYYY!” Mrs. Riley is on her feet and yodeling like a maniac.
She’s always loud, but tonight it’s like a knife straight into my brain. Her husband, though, sits beside her with his knees tucked together and hands folded in his lap. To look at him, he might be in church.
There’s a scrum in front of the net which ends when the goalie traps the puck under his glove. No goal.
The game grinds on, scoreless through the first period. I wander around during the intermission, wishing one of the vendors sold ibuprofen. They don’t, though. I buy a pretzel, hoping that a little food will perk me up.
When the second period begins, the speed of play picks up. Wes looks aggressive out there, and he gets several shots on goal, but they’re rebuffed. I’m not worried. If he keeps that up, it will work eventually. Toronto is outshooting Ottawa. Every time we rush the net Mama Riley spews forth with high-decibel encouragements. “EAT EM FOR AN APPETIZER BLAKEY! SHOOT IT AT HIS EVERLOVING WALNUTS!”
I’m deaf now.
Also, the room is swimming a little in a way that rooms really shouldn’t. And when I try to focus on the puck, the glare on the ice burns my retinas.
Eriksson scores deep into the second period, and I am not nearly as excited as usual. In fact, I want to go home. No—Ineedto. Pulling out my phone, I text Wes.So sorry, babe. Have the worst headache. Going home early. Let’s go out tomorrow? Same plan, one day later.
“RIDE HIM LIKE A DONKEY BLAKEY!” Mrs. Riley is screeching when I get up. I can still hear her all the way to the top of the stands.
The next morningmy alarm goes off at five-thirty. I hit the snooze button and take stock. My body feels like lead, though that may be partly because it’s weighed down by themuscular thigh of a certain Toronto forward who is passed out while half straddling me.
I never heard him come home last night.
Dozing, it seems as though my alarm goes off again much too quickly. But I heave myself out of bed, because it’s a weekday and my boys have a six-thirty practice. These kids play hockey before school, gearing up while the rest of the sixteen-year-old world sleeps. If they can get there on time, then I will, too.
The coffee I buy at the rink forty-five minutes later tastes like water and hits my stomach like battery acid. Really, it must have been a foul batch. My team’s practice goes slowly because I’m in agony. My headache is back, sitting low at the base of my skull this time. And my stomach keeps cramping.
Hell. Dunlop looks extra shaky out there this morning. It’s only a matter of time before Bill Braddock assigns a more senior defensive coach to work with him. And since we’re having a coaches’ meeting right after this practice, all my coworkers are standing around watching my goalie struggle.
Could this day get any worse?
After the kids leave, I survive the ninety-minute meeting by propping my aching head in my palm and forcing myself to stay awake. I’m probably coming down with something, but I don’t excuse myself. Because A) I’m not a wuss and B) if I ignore it, maybe it will go away.
After the meeting I’m supposed to skate again. Two other defensive coaches and I are teaming up to hold a clinic this morning for some of the older players. When I get out on the ice, though, my stomach cramps again. So I leave the ice, put my skate guards on and head for the john.
The next fifteen minutes are very uncomfortable, but finally my bowels stop exploding. I know this is bad. I have togo home, but home seems really far away all of a sudden. While I’m washing my hands, the light in the room goes yellow and the ambient sound goes dim.
That can’t be good.
I take a few steps toward the bathroom door, but it’s not working all that well. Maybe if I just had a little rest for a moment, I could do better.
The floor of the men’s room at a practice rink is thelastplace in the world a guy should sit down. But hey, it’s convenient. I sink down, my back sliding against the tiles. My ass hits the floor.
