Fans. They all have opinions about everything. One good game and you’re their favorite player. One bad game and you’ll never hear the end of it.
Grabbing my water bottle, I take a swig before the whistle blows. Hopping over the boards, I’m ready to get back out on the ice.
“You ready?” Noah elbows me from where he’s standing on the ice.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He throws his gloved fists up in defense. “Hey, don’t come after me. I’m not giving you shit about it.”
“Sorry. They’re just getting in my head.”
“We’ve got this,” he says. “We’ll bring it home.”
Glancing up at the scoreboard, I know we’re doing fine. We’re beating Minnesota 5-3 and it’s late in the third.
“Damn right, we will.”
Our center goes to take the face-off and immediately wins the puck. He sends it to me, and I head down the ice, pushing all earlier thoughts out of my head. Our winger is with me and I shoot the puck his way. He’s one of the newer guys on the team, but watching him play is a thing of beauty.
I wonder if that’s what I looked like playing at his age. Pretty sure I was playing hockey before he was born, but that’s not something I need to get into right now. He’s showing off his puck handling skills and before I know it, the puck is in the back of the net.
“Hell, yeah!” I clap him on the helmet, celebrating his goal.
“Nice pass, Jasper,” Noah says.
The fans are ecstatic as we extend our lead. Music blares throughout the arena. With only three minutes left and a solid lead, Coach Andrews keeps our line in.
The music stops when the puck drops. For a quick couple of seconds, I watch the guys play before I join the fray because it’s hard not to admire their skills.
I used to be that good. Keywords used to be.
I know I don’t have much more in me. Between getting old and the fans heckling me more often than not, I’m kind of over this shit.
But I can’t hang up my helmet yet. Not when I don’t have anything to show for it. I’ve played with Nashville since I was drafted. Hell, I’ve been in the league for about twenty years, having been drafted when I was nineteen.
I love this town and this team, and I want to win it all. We’ve started out strong this season, but that doesn’t mean anything come postseason.
As my shift ends, I head back to the bench.
“Nice work out there, Hayes.” Coach claps me on the helmet.
“Well, it looks like you can play hockey,” one of the fans behind me chirps.
“Ignore them,” Noah says.
“They make it hard some days.”
“Well, you are ninety and still playing hockey,” Noah says with a shit-eating grin.
“Really? Fuck you, dude.”
As the final horn sounds, we beat Minnesota 6-3. It might not have been my best game ever, but getting the W felt good.
After shaking hands with the other team, we skate back toward the tunnel for postgame interviews.
Something I’m not looking forward to.
I know the local press well, but the national media won’t be so kind. My suspicions are confirmed when I stop at the first reporter calling my name.
