Good. Then it’s out of my system. Time to be a goddamned grownup.
Or at least look like one.
Still holding my own gaze, I exhaled. I had to pull it together for my team’s benefit. The worst part of last night was when I’d started to regain my composure, and I’d realized how many of the other guys had red, wet eyes. They’d been fine through the ceremony. They’d powered through the game. But when I’d fallen apart, I’d dragged them all down with me.
Christ. I was the most useless captain this League—this whole damnsport—had ever had.
I shouldn’t be captain.
But if I’m not…
I closed my eyes and sighed. If I asked to be stripped ofmy captaincy, I’d be failing them again. Someone else would have to step up—someone else who wasalsostruggling with grief and this new normal. Or one of the new guys, like Peyton or Laramie, who’d have to figure out how to step into the skates of someone we were all grieving. That wouldn’t be fair to themorto the team.
The C was on my jersey, and that was where it needed to stay. The Whiskey Rebels needed someone to fill Leif’s role, and I was the one they’d asked to step up. So I would. I had to.
I took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly.
I’d watched Leif lead this team through tough moments. Even when he himself had been struggling, he’d never let it show. Not in the locker room. Not where any camera or teammate (besides me) could see it. He’d get emotional, of course—hockey wasn’t hockey if it was played without emotion—but he was always controlled and composed.
“We’re all hoping for the best news about Howie,”he’d told the whole team in the locker room during one intermission.“We’re all worried. But we owe it to him, to our fans, and to ourselves, to keep going. Stay focused on the game, then we can all tell Howie he owes us beers for slacking off like this.”
The laugh that had sent rippling through the room had broken the tension. As if to prove his point, Leif had gone out his very next shift and scored, giving us a lead in a tight game. We’d all been rattled after watching our teammate land badly on his head and neck, and after watching the paramedics wheel him off the ice in a C-collar, but because Leif had rallied, so had the rest of us. He’d been exactly the leader we’d needed that night.
It was only hours later—after a hard-fought win, media availability, and driving himself and me to visit Howie inthe hospital—that he’d finally let the cracks show. After we’d left Howie’s room, Leif had paused outside for a few deep breaths. I’d thought for a moment he might break down or start shaking or something, but no—he’d rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat, and said,“How about we get out of here?”
We’d gone back to my place for a couple of beers, and after he’d gotten a little bit lit, Leif had shakily admitted,“The way he went down? That was the scariest thing I ever saw.”
And the next morning, he’d been back on the ice, practicing and chirping like nothing had happened.
I needed to be like him. Strong. Stoic. Someone the whole team could lean on.
How do I become the strongest person I ever knew when he’s the person I’m missing?
A fresh wave of emotion threatened, but I tamped it down. Not now. Not when I had to get to practice and start showing this stoic side I’d never needed before.
I could grieve later. Behind closed doors. Away from the cameras, the fans, and—most importantly—my teammates. They needed a strong leader right now. They neededme. No one needed to know what was really going on beneath the surface.
Last night had been awful, and I hated myself for falling apart like that in front of the guys.
It wasn’t going to happen again.
Convincing my teammates, coaches, and everyone else that I was okay took some serious work, but I was pretty sure I pulled it off. There were a lot of concerned looks andquestions when I got to the training facility that morning. Offers of support. People asking if I was okay to practice and to play.
By the time we’d hit the ice for practice, I had everyone more or less convinced I was fine. Last night had been rough on all of us, but today was a new day. I had this.
I didn’tfeellike I had this, but I could fake it.
My other teammates were mostly falling back into the normal practice vibe. Serious focus during drills and scrimmages, but chirping and laughing in between. Concentrating on the task at hand, working hard, and all the while enjoying what we did. This was the best job in the world, and even at its most frustrating, I loved it.
Or, well, Ihadloved it.
During training camp, when everything had been new and raw, hockey had pulled my focus and kept my head above water. Over time, though, as I’d gotten back into the swing of playing, everything else had crept in again, and it didn’t go away while I was skating. Not completely.
After the home opener, my concentration was a mess. It was like trying to play in ill-fitting gear—I could mostly go through the motions, but all I could think about was how uncomfortable and distracted I was.
In other areas of my life, I was slowly pushing forward. Moving on as much as it was possible to move on.
But here…
