These days, my anxiety mostly surfaces when my mom goes on one of her ‘woe-is-me’ rants, listing everything I, Cody, owe her, Mom, for sacrificing her youth and beauty—let’s not forget her title ofMiss Loganback in 1995. It usually starts with a slight tunnel vision and that familiar ringing sound in my ears before it transfers to my hands, my fingers tingling, my palms growing clammy until, eventually, my chest starts tightening. It rarely morphs into a full-blown panic attack, but it’s still scary as hell—the loss of control. The feeling of being suspended over a great abyss of nothing but an all-consuming feeling of fear. The only thing that’ll usually pull me back from the claws of that feeling of pure dread is the sound of my dad’s calming voice. I can still recall the distinct deep hum if I concentrate hard enough, safeguarding it deep inside where my mom’s shrill nagging and accusations can’t reach. ‘You ready, bud? You ready, bud?’
‘You ready, bud?’ Dad patted my helmet, a proud glimmer lingering in the cool gray of his kind eyes, his warm, coffee-tinted breath coasting across my face.
‘I think so, Dad.’ I tugged at my bottom lip, gazing around the rink where a group of kids my own age were already on the ice. Some looked pretty advanced, skating at a constant speed as they swept across the ice. Others looked like newbies like me, legs wobbling, arms grabbing desperately at the air in front of them. Rows of enthusiastic parents with rosy cheeks and eager eyes glaring at them, the occasional ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ spilling from their mouths followed by a ‘Nice try, hon,’ or ‘There you go, sweetie.’
‘You’re ready, Cody,’ Dad winked, getting up from where he was crouching in front of me.Six.I was six, and I’d been nagging my dad for eight months now that I was old enough to start playing hockey. Kids in our neighborhood who were wayyounger than me were already playing for the Cache Valley Jr. Aggies at the amateur hockey club in my hometown, Logan, Utah.
Of course, my mom was opposed to the idea. It was too expensive, too time-consuming, too dangerous, too blah-blah-blah. From an early age, Danny and I had learned to change stations when Mom went into one of her ‘I-do-everything-around-here-and-what-do-I-ever-get-in-return?’ tirades. It wasn’t often that my mom listened to anything I and Danny had to say in the first place, and when she did listen—‘I’m listening, Cody, so speak’—she interrupted more than anything else. So, I’d nearly given up, resigning to the fact that hockey was an unattainable dream. Dad was mostly away for work, and Danny and I usually stayed out of Mom’s way when she was in a mood, which was pretty often. It wasn’t that I’d stopped talking about hockey—I still dreamed of becoming the next big hockey name out of Utah—it was just a quieter dream. A dream that I would tuck away during the day and unwrap at night when I was lying in bed, telling all my secrets to Trevor, whose poster adorned my back wall.
Funny how my mom was the first one to take credit when I, at the age of eight, became Player of the Year—which was the first for a goalie as long as anyone could remember in Logan. Dad just shook his head, an ill-disguised smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, when Mom praised herself for being steadfast—steadfast, Glenn—in her unwavering belief that I had a raw talent and that he should be grateful that she’d recognized it when no one else had. One year later, when I once again received the sought-after title, there was no proud dad smiling back at me when I gazed down at the small trophy on the kitchen table, trying to tune out Mom’s Mother-of-the-Year rant.
No, Glenn Manning was long gone by then, somewhere in Idaho with Danny, and his departing promise ‘I’ll see you soon,okay bud?’ had been exactly just that. A promise. One that remained unfulfilled over the years until there was nothing left except faded pictures in a photo album and the ghost of my dad’s voice. Until there was nothing left but Mom’s inconsistent explanations that ‘Your daddy doesn’t want you anymore. He’s made a new life for himself with Danny in Idaho. Good thing you still have me, baby. I’ll never leave you. I’ll always be here.’Even at age nine, I remember thinking that Mom’s words sounded more like a threat than a comfort. ‘I’ll always be here.’
“I know, I know,” a warm voice washes over me, pulling me back from my bittersweet memories. “Story of my life. Always fucking late.”
“Well, get a move on then, Carrington,” a much deeper voice thunders down the long hallway, echoing off the walls.
My heartbeat has settled back into its normalthump, thump, thumpwhen two guys around my age blow past me in a semi-jog, joking and throwing playful punches at each other.
“Hey, man.” The shorter of the two turns around, and I’m met by a pair of deep brown eyes and a broad, toothy grin.Luke Carrington.One of the Lions’ D-men and our biggest asset, if you ask me. A good-looking guy by any standard, with his wavy, dark brown hair, and his trademark crooked smile.
“Hey,” I mumble, shifting on my feet, my nerves suddenly back. It’s real now. This is it.
“You going in?” Luke continues to smile at me, his brown doe eyes searching mine, his cheeks flushed red from the cold. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself while attempting a smile.You’ve got this. You earned it. You deserve it,I give myself an internal pep talk.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m going in.”
Chapter Four
Luke
McKinney isn’t coming back.We already suspected that. It doesn’t take the team physician to explain in detail the severity of our goalie’s injury. It was pretty evident from the way he landed on the ice last night. If anyone was in doubt about whether McKinney was coming back, his screams from the medical room next to the team locker room were enough to convince you he wasn’t. McKinney’s right shoulder was separated from the AC joint. An injury like that doesn’t normally require surgery, but our goalie isn’t that lucky. Coach Bassey’s serious frown when he stepped into the locker room ten minutes earlier cemented that. So, in not so many words, the Mountain Lions’ third NHL season has just gone from struggling to thoroughly and definitively fucked. No matter how optimistically you look at it—and I’ve always considered myselfa pretty positive and optimistic person—we probably won’t be roaring any time soon.
“… in good hands with the best medical professionals the team can provide,” Coach drones on. Looking around at my teammates’ desolate faces, I realize that I’m not the only one who seems to have lost faith. Even Nowak, our Polish wing, who’s known for his goofball antics both on and off the ice, looks shell-shocked, to say the least.Shit. I throw a glance at Riley, who just shrugs in return, mouthing my own thoughts back at me.We’re fucked.
“… Mitchell was scouted from the Phoenix Chasers earlier this year and has shown great promise in the AHL playing for the Dockers,” Coach pushes out his chest, his gaze resting on me and my two fellow defensemen, Virtanen, who was added to the team roster last spring, and Crane, who was drafted at the same time as me.
I played college hockey with Crane in Albany, but we never really hung out outside of hockey, since I wasn’t into the whole fraternity thing. I had one sole focus in college. Hockey, hockey, and yeah, you guessed it, more hockey. I always managed to put in the necessary amount of effort in my classes to keep my grades at an acceptable level. No need to jeopardize my place on the team by failing my courses. Coming from an upper-middle-class home in Lancaster, I learned the value of a decent education from an early age. My dad, Richard, is an English literature professor at UPenn, and my mom, Hannah, is a part-time yoga instructor/stay-at-home mom to me and my twin sisters. My parents have always supported my dream of playing in the NHL, but with the underlying expectation that I would get myself a degree to fall back on.
A solid player on the ice, always one to push through when the rest of the team is one second away from hanging their skates, Crane has earned himself a permanent spot as one ofour key players. However, off the ice, he can be a bit of a dick, occasionally getting himself into a bar fight or some shit like that. Something about the guy has always rubbed me the wrong way, so I’m sure to keep my distance as much as possible.
‘You’re on my bullshit radar, Crane,’Coach yelled as late as two weeks ago when Crane showed up late for practice, hungover with a huge hickey on his neck. ‘Don’t think you’re indispensable, son. No one is.’Yeah, Coach Bassey has a built-in crap detector, and no one is a sure thing.
“Some of you might remember Mitchell from training camp this summer?” Coach carries on, his eyes landing on Buckhammer, our second goalie, who has become our first overnight. The Hulk-sized Texan nods in recognition, his jet-black hair slicked back, his face serious. He joined the team around the same time as me, traded from the Lewisville Longhorns, and even though he hasn’t played much during his second season, now’s the time to step up. “Buckhammer?” Coach tips his chin.
“Yeah, Coach, I remember him,” Buckhammer murmurs, looking uneasy at the whole situation. Any goalie who has any ambitions at all wants to be the first choice on the team. Hell, any hockey player in the NHL wants to be first choice, period. That’s why you spend endless hours on the ice perfecting every little turn and move. That’s why you bust your ass in the gym every chance you get and try to stay fit during the off-season. That’s why you keep to that bland meal plan the team nutritionist puts up every week on the team schedule. We all want that spot. But not at the expense of someone else’s misfortune. No, you want to earn that spot—yourspot—fair and square.
“And?” Coach motions with his hand for our goalie to go on, a semi-impatient frown carved between his bushy salt-and-pepper brows.
“Yeah, sorry, Coach,” Buckhammer shifts his massive frame on the bench, clearing his throat. “Uhm… great recovery. Pretty good transitions. He’s quick but still needs to work on his positioning,” our goalie continues, looking at me and the other D-men, his blue eyes showing discomfort at being called on by Coach. I’ve always wondered how a big dude like Buckhammer has such a light, almost feminine, voice. It seems against the laws of nature that the huge Texan should even be able to produce such a sound. Like a bull squeaking like a squirrel.
“Agree,” Coach’s deep voice sweeps through the locker room. “As I said, he’s showing great promise, but he’s not McKinney, of course.” A few groans resound around the room. “Don’t mean he can’t become one,” Coach cuts through the murmur, raising a warning eyebrow at Crane, who seems to have been the one groaning the loudest. “He holds a 2.15 GAA this season and became first goalie for the Dockers just a few weeks into being signed.”
Virtanen whistles next to me, an impressed tilt to his stoic chin. It isn’t often that the Finn shows any kind of emotion off the ice—not unless it involves a microphone and a 70s playlist. Yeah, Virtanen loves karaoke, which became clear at the team’s annual Christmas party, when the six-foot-six Scandinavian crooned his way through ABBA’sGimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).Well, the Finn didn’t get a man but he sure as shit wooed the Swedish Greta from the women’s NHL team.
“Sweet,” he whispers against my right ear, showing off his distinct toothy grin, one front tooth missing. Yeah, our team may have won in Kansas against the Shawnee Bobcats last month, but it cost the Finn a tooth during an intense altercation.
“And you’re all gonna give him a chance. And you’re gonna have his back both on and off the ice. I won’t stand for anythingelse, you boys with me?” Coach’s eyes blaze as he looks around the room, his stare connecting with each one of us.
