That’s a lot of hate for a California boy. The day is not going well.
We finally pull in and hustle the guys off the bus, and I help run a bunch of equipment inside. The tourney is running behind by a half hour, thank the lord. They’re suited up and ready to play with enough time that it’s almost civilized.
“Let’s go,” I say, clapping my gloves together. “You—Barrie! Keep your chin down in the faceoff. This team was a little slow to ship the puck, remember?”
The kid nods, his face intense.
Then I turn my attention on my goalie, Dunlop. He’s a highly skilled player and brilliant in practice. Unfortunately, he’s developed a tendency to clench up during games. He did all right at the start of the season, but this month he’s in a rut.
“How you feeling?” I ask him.
His blue eyes dart away. “You mean—do I feel like I’m gonna choke again?”
“Dunlop, look. I know what you’re going through. Every goalie’s had a slump. And that crap always feels permanent. But it never is. Whether your slump ends today or next month, itwillend. They always do.”
He makes an angry teenaged grunt. I haven’t convinced him.
“You’ve got the skills. Everybody knows it, even when they’re pissy with you.” It hasn’t helped that Dunlop’s teammates are pissed off about his recent performance. “They wouldn’t bother getting tetchy if they didn’t believe you could do it.” I cuff him on the shoulder pad. “Stay loose. You got this.”
Wary eyes finally rise to meet mine. “Okay. Thanks, Coach Canning.”
And there it is. The whole reason I do this. “You’re welcome. Now go.”
The Zamboni has finished resurfacing the ice, so our guys are allowed to circle the rink for ninety seconds, warming up. Dunlop skates out with his head held high and proceeds to scuff up the crease like a goalie does before a game. He taps the right pipe once and the left one twice—his little ritual. And I think today could even be his lucky day.
My phone has buzzed in my pocket a couple of times, and now I have a moment to check it. There’s a missed call from Wes. He must be finished with his morning skate. Even asI’m holding the phone, it buzzes with a new text.It’s hard again.
I remember our joke from yesterday.How hard is it?
Hard enough to stand up and salute you.
I glance at the rink. The refs aren’t out there yet, so I still have a minute. I back up against a cinderblock wall so there’s no chance anyone else can see my phone.You gonna show me or what?
A second later the photo appears. Wes has taken the trouble to fold a small paper hat for his erection to wear. It’s grinning at me from what must be our sofa. Wes has also drawn a stick arm in salute along with a smiley face. I snort with inappropriate laughter just as I hear the ref’s whistle blow.Priceless, I text back.Miss you.
Back atcha babe.
Taking care to lock and stow my phone, I move up to the bench to coach the game, a few degrees lighter than I was before.
FOUR
WES
I’m not there to greet Jamie when he returns from Montreal on Sunday—I’m already boarding a flight to Chicago for yet another away game. The good thing is, after this one, we’re looking at a one-week stretch of home games. One blessed week of sleeping in my own bed. One week ofJamie.
I can’t fucking wait.
My coat goes in the overhead bin and my earbuds go into my ears, but before I sit down Forsberg yells from the seat behind me, “Guys, it’s the gay shirt! He wore it again!”
I pause and give him a cheesy wink. “Wore it for you, cutie. Because you liked it so much last time.”
Forsberg throws a wadded-up napkin at me, and I duck it by dropping into my seat.
Of course, the real reason I’m wearing this shirt is that I didn’t do laundry, and it was lying over a chair unwrinkled. That and it’s a killer shirt. Forsberg be damned.
I make myself comfortable, closing my eyes and reclining in my seat as I mentally prepare for this very important gameagainst the league leaders. Most of my teammates are doing the same thing.
When I feel the seat next to me depress under somebody’s ass, I assume it’s Lemming’s, because he and I often sit together on flights and the bus. Lemming, a redheaded D-man, grew up in Boston, too.
