This time she doesn’t hold back her laugh, and I love the way her cheeks push up and her eyes crinkle. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”
“Maybe you ought to come over and tire me out then?”
“I can’t, Aidan,” she says, with a sigh. “I have to finish my work and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. You should get some sleep too. It’s going to be a long road trip.”
“It’s only five days,” I say. That’s actually on the shorter side. The thought of her not staying with the team beyond the first game, and me not seeing her at all during that time is... not preferable.
I’m starting to see what Drew meant when he told Hartmann that it was going to be hard to be away from his wife once the season started up. Not thatthisis that serious, but given how much I already know I’ll miss seeing Morgan, I can only imagine how the guys with families feel. Ironically, after over a decade of playing professional hockey, it’s the first time I’ve ever felt like I “get it.”
“Even so, rest is recovery. Go get some sleep,” she says. “Good night.”
Before I can respond, she’s already disconnected the call. I sit for a minute trying to figure out what that dismissal means.
The fact that she’s not prioritizing spending time with me, given everything else she has going on, should be agoodsign. It means she understands how this whole casual thing works.
I’m no longer sure I want to be the one she practices being casual with. Maybe I never really did. I suggested the friends with benefits situation to spend more time with her, not because what I felt toward her was simply friendship mixed with sexual attraction.
Being with her has filled cracks in my life I didn’t even realize were still there—loneliness, grief, abandonment—and I worry that once this is over, those cracks will open right back up, leaving painful wounds in their wake.
Even as hard as I’ve tried not to, I’m getting emotionally invested. And the way she’s pulling back right now makes me remember the concern I had back in Bermuda:I’m more worried about you breaking me.
“All right, boys,” Wilcott saysas he claps his hand against his clipboard. “One more period to go, and you all know what I’m going to say.”
“Do. Your. Job.” Our shouts fill the locker room.
Apparently this is what Coach said to the team at the beginning of Game 7. Since we went out there anddidn’tdo what was needed to bring home the Cup, we’ve adopted it as our rallying cry this season—a reminder that should probably feel ominous, but somehow feels empowering instead. The one thing we can control on the ice is ourselves: how much energy we bringto the game, the precision with which we perform, and how we react when things don’t go our way.
I always thought my reactiveness on the ice was what fueled me. But it became clear during the preseason that controlling my reactions on the ice actually makes me feel more powerful, instead of letting my emotions get the better of me, which only resulted in too many power plays for our opponents. I thinkthatmight be the lesson AJ wanted me to learn, and the reason she gave me the alternate captain position.
We line up to take the ice, and behind me, Colt and Hartmann are talking about the goalie hug they have planned after we win.
I look over my shoulder, saying, “Let’s not start the celebration too early. We still have an entire period to play.”
“Dude,” Colt says, “winning is the only option we picture.”
Hartmann claps his hand on my shoulder. “Just imagine it. It’s the last minute of the game. We’re up by one. Washington’s on fire, taking shot after shot, but Colt blocks or saves every single shot. You’ve got topictureit to believe that’s what’s going to happen.”
Goalies are always a little out of their mind—you’d have to be, if you’re willing to stand between the pipes while people shoot ninety-mile-per-hour pucks at you. Still, visualizing the win is something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. I just never pictured it so specifically.
“Maybe we should do a better job of keeping the puck down near Washington’s net, instead,” I say.
“Sure,youvisualize that,” Colt says, then coughs a laugh. “Meanwhile, I’ll be picturing myself saving your ass when that doesn’t happen.”
I swallow as a lump suddenly appears in my throat at the familiarity of it all—the ribbing and shit-talking and camaraderie amongst my teammates.
This.This right here is what I missed more than anything last year. Not the ice time, I got plenty of that once my hand healed. Not the travel, because it was actually kind of nice not being in a new city every couple days. It was the sense of belonging, of being aroundmy people. And instead of showing up, being there to support them last year like a teammate should, I succumbed to bitterness and licked my wounds in private. Alone, as always.
I see now why so many hockey players get married young, like Hartmann did. The travel and the unpredictability of the sport is so much easier when you have a family support system. It’s something I didn’t even realize was lacking until I got injured, and for the first time ever, I’m not just wondering, but seriously considering, if that’s something I’d want. Someone to come home to, a relationship built on mutual respect rather than the random hookups I had before Morgan was in my life.
“It’s good to be back,” I say.
“It’s good tohaveyou back,” Colt tells me. “Really.”
With that, we follow our teammates into the hallway. At home, we walk down the hallway to the rink solemnly, each of us running a hand across the Rebels logo painted on the tunnel wall as we approach the bench. On the road, we’re rowdy, banging the butts of our sticks on the ground with each step as we yell out the Rebels chant.
Morgan’s pressed herself against the wall near the opening to the rink so she can get video of us coming back to close out this game. Just like at our home opener a few days ago, seeing her there before third period gives me the boost I need not only to get through the next twenty minutes, but to play harder than I’m normally able.
And that goal, the one I visualized on our walk back to the ice, feels even sweeter because it plays out in real time almost exactly the way I pictured it. The way my line volleys the puck back and forth as we move toward Washington’s net, the way myshot sends the puck sailing past their goalie’s glove and into the back of the net. It’s all exactly as I pictured it, especially when I glance up at the media booth and find Morgan at the glass looking pleased.
