Rhys Brant is a tamer version of Benz, more self-aware and socially adept. He’s the type of guy who invites you in with self-deprecation, and he has a calmness about him that puts me at ease. Those characteristics seem in direct conflict with his fiery red hair.
It’s solid advice given with good intention, but O’Keefe knocks his hand away and slams the door as he walks out.
“Okay,” Ace says. “You heard Coach, let’s play some team hockey.”
We follow him onto the ice and greet the AHL team. A few of their veteran players surround me with backslaps and fist bumps. The head coach, who had been their assistant when I’d skated with them, also thumps my back and pulls me into a hug. They won’t make it easy for us, especially me. They’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain by standing out and playing well against us.
The Enforcers are surprised at how friendly I am with the AHL guys. I haven’t told them that I trained and played with this team. It never came up.
Coach puts in who he expects to be the first line starts. At center, Drake, flanked by his boyfriend Lucky and Ace. Liska’s in goal with defenders O’Keefe and Brant.
Lucky and Drake are so in sync on and off the ice, I swear they can communicate telepathically; they leave the AHL guys far behind. They volley the puck around, practicing no-look passes in an elaborate game of keep-away. When they know their shift is about to end, Ace shoots and scores.
I’m over the boards for my shift with Mason Griffin and the new guy at center, Maverick, making his NHL debut. Mav, as he likes to be called. He’s a fun goofball, so I had some reservations about him. But on the ice, he’s a killer. Mav easily wins the face-off and follows the example set by the first line by passing the puck immediately to me.
Muscle memory kicks in, and we race down the ice. The defenders hurl good-natured insults when they can’t keep up. Usually, I’d find Griff right away to score, but today I circle around the back of the net to run a screen play by blocking off the goalie’s sight lines and pass the puck to Griff. Griff dishes it to Mav and he scores.
We meet for a celly hug, and Mav does a jig on the ice. He’s gonna fit right in and level us up.
“Let the D-line get some action this time,” Coach yells.
“Watch this.” Mav grins and takes his position for the face-off. He wins it again but passes it directly to the AHL winger. The winger is so stunned he almost loses the pass that hits his stick. It’s a mistake that, in a regular seasongame, I would recover the puck, but I don’t. I let them test our defenders and Liska.
I hang back to keep their winger out of the mix. “Assume at any second the puck is coming your way and be ready. You’re better than letting the new guy beat your ass,” I tease my old friend, and he shoves me into the boards for my tip.
Coach pulls my line, and Gray checks on us to ensure we’re all in top shape, spending extra time questioning me about the hit I took. He’s a relentless trainer and knows when we’re lying. “A push among friends,” I assure him. “I’m all good.”
On my next shift, I replace Ace on the first line, which means I’m playing with O’Keefe. Drake doesn’t pass to the other team but hesitates half a second to give them a chance.
O’Keefe’s ready for the attack and easily strips the puck. That’s when things go sideways. I’m all alone waiting by the blue line, and O’Keefe has an open lane to send me the puck. He doesn’t.
Instead, he keeps the puck and charges through the AHL players in a spectacular spin move. As if he’s insulted the AHL team, they go into a hive mode and attack him all at once. O’Keefe continues to battle for the puck even with Lucky and Drake calling for the pass.
My itchy skin makes my movements feel clunky, and my heart gallops in my chest. But I skate to stay in O’Keefe’s sightline. I’ve spent years practicing a friendly facial expression so no one thinks I’m an angry Black man. It helps now as I bang my stick calling for the puck.
I doubt he’ll pass to me, but I do what I’ve been trained and keep open. Finally, he realizes it’s a losing battle and passes to Lucky, even though the smart pass would be to me.
Coach screams at O’Keefe, and his voice echoes, bouncing off the ice. “Is that what you call teamwork? King positioned himself so you could easily fucking pass.” Coach isn’t one to swear, so it seems he’s fed up with O’Keefe.
I thought O’Keefe being reprimanded would flood my system with relief, but it doesn’t happen. My muscles stay tense, and my mind whirls. Usually, I leavemy anxiety on the bench and dedicate all my mental activities to playing. I won’t let O’Keefe take that from me.
Playing with Lucky and Drake makes me work harder. I’m not delusional enough to think I’ll take Ace’s spot anytime soon. I’m happy with my playing time and role on the team. My nerves would’ve overloaded in a bad way if I’d stepped into a starting position my rookie year like O’Keefe did.
For the rest of the game, Coach configures the lines so O’Keefe and I are together.
My movements are three steps behind because the noise in my brain is so loud. The other team knows me well enough to take advantage.
I’m letting everyone down.
I promised Ari Dimon that I could play withhim, but now I’m doubting my abilities. I’m not holding my own, and I’m playing worse than everyone else on the ice. Coach’s threat of being demoted to the AHL swims in my head.
Using every calming technique I’ve learned, I refocus.
The AHL guys continue to chirp at me, and I encourage them. They’re my boys, and I’d love to see them succeed.
Through it all, O’Keefe never passes to me.
If we can’t work this out, the entire team will suffer. After being shoved into the boards, I steal the puck and pass it to O’Keefe. It’s the smart pass and hopefully shows my willingness to be a team player. I need to prove I’m not the problem and do everything I can to win games.
