I give him a solid nod. Crew shoots me a wary glance as he hops over the boards with Nash. I've been playing so shitty this game that Coach moved me off their line. We are the first line of forwards, the three of us together. Nash and Crew are in their own battle for the most face-off wins this season. I am their trusty winger. Coach loves to put me on right-wing because I'm a leftie and it fucks with the other team's defense. But I've made not one but two sloppy passes this game, which caused a turnover and I've taken two penalties—hooking and slashing. One of the penalties gave the Barons a goal to add to their four-two lead.
It’s not just my worst game of the season, it’s probably the worst game of my professional career. And tomorrow I have to leave for a road trip. The first since Dylan and Mallory showed up in my life five days ago. The adjustment to having a son is why I’m playing like garbage. He’s doing this thing now called sleep regression and he’s been waking up at all fucking hours. Mallory is sharing a room with him, so she handles it, but it wakes me up. That boy has some serious lungs on him. Also, because I need to get used to this as a dad, I’ve been getting up and knocking on her door every time I hear him, so I can help. She’s let me try twice and both times his screaming got worse, so now she tells me to just stay in bed. It’s fine. But it isn’t fine. I should be able to handle this without her. And one day soon I will have to.
And there’s been endless trips to the grocery store and Target and my house is overflowing with kid shit now. I don’t mind, but it’s an adjustment. And now, I’m constantly worrying about leaving her and him alone in LA while I’m on this road trip. I keep thinking of things I need to tell her or show her before I go, things about the complex like where to toss the garbage or recycling or how to drive my car because I can’t leave her without wheels.
All of these things have blown up my focus like a nuclear bomb. No one else knows that though because I haven’t told a soul about what’s going on. Well, except my lawyer. This guy my agent recommended when I told him I had a friend who just found out his girlfriend is pregnant and wants a legal custody arrangement. Yeah, I pulled the “I have a friend” routine, but my agent bought it hook, line, and sinker because everyone knows I’ve never had a girlfriend.
The guys on my new line for the rest of this game start to get up, as my old line starts to come off. A hand lands on my shoulder. “Piakoski you’re in for Garrison this shift.”
My veins flood with frustration and I look up at Coach Braddock. He’s staring down at me. “Angry? Good. Channel it.”
A couple shifts later he orders me to head out with Nash and Crew and I force everything out of my brain except hockey. It works. I set up Nash for a glorious goal. Unfortunately, four minutes later, the Barons score again and there's no time left to win it. The final buzzer goes and it's over. I feel like the entire loss is my fault and I hate myself. That's become a common new feeling that I'm not a fan of but it's all I seem to feel lately. Especially when I try to bond with Dylan.
The team is relatively silent as we march our way to the locker room. As soon as everyone is sitting, and before the media comes in, I clear my throat. “Sorry guys. I should have been better out there tonight.”
“Yeah you should have,” Nash replies firmly and he scrubs his sweaty face with a towel. “And I should have scored in the second not sent it wide.”
“Twice,” his twin notes. Nash nods as Crew adds, “And I shouldn’t have been so fucking slow in the first. We all need to figure out where we personally went wrong and make sure not to do it again. No one person owns this loss. We all own it.”
"Media time!" Adam announces as he walks into the room. Adam is the media director for the team. He's all business. He doesn't seem to even like hockey, but he loves public relations and media. He worked for a movie studio before he joined us at the start of the season. I know I'm going to have to loop him, and the coaching team and management, into this new development in my personal life. Because our lives as hockey players aren't always our own. Even here in Los Angeles, where the majority of people honestly don't give two fucks about hockey, players still manage to find their way into the gossip sites every now and then. Like when Crew's engagement ended abruptly last year.
Yeah, Adam and the team will want to set the tone and narrative around Dylan and my leap into single parenthood. I know that the media finding out before they do will be catastrophic to my tenure on this team and Idowant it to be a tenure. The Quake drafted me when I was eighteen and made it clear then they hoped to make this a long-lasting relationship. I'd always taken that very seriously. I wanted to be a franchise player somewhere. The rare breed that starts and ends his career in the same place. This new development could ruin that if I don't handle it properly.
The media tonight, of course, starts with me. Everyone wants to know what's up. Why I was so subpar. This confirms, despite Crew's words, it's my performance that everyone noticed. I fed them the usual bullshit lines a player gives when they suck—it was an off night. These things happen. I will do better. I'm not worried this is the start of any kind of long-term downswing.
We shower and change, and eventually, the words between players go from grunts and muttering to full-blown conversations. Crew and Nash are debating where to go out and blow off the stench of the shitty game. Nash turns to me. "Feeling like some burritos at Casa Rosa? The crowds should have dispersed by now.”
I love the Mexican restaurant by the arena. We rarely go to it on game nights because fans are usually milling about, but on nights we lose they dissipate fast. I could use one of their amazing chicken burritos or a few of their fish tacos but I know I have to get home to Mallory and Dylan. “Another time. I have something to do.”
“What do you have to do?” Nash looks perplexed.
“Or is it a who?” Crew asks with a broad grin as he pulls a dress shirt on over his tattooed arms and torso. “You’ve been M.I.A from everything for a week. I think you’ve found a new playmate.”
I huff. God, I wish it was that simple. I shake my head. “Nah. I’ve got a friend from home visiting and… I’ve just been busy is all.”
I shrug into my blazer, tucking my tie in my pocket because I can’t be bothered to put it on again. I shove my feet into my dress loafers, sock-less. The coach walks into the room and claps his hands to grab everyone’s attention. The room falls silent. “Look, tonight was not great. It’s gonna happen. Shake it off. But know that I expect to finish this season on a high note. And then we have playoffs. So, I’m locking us down right now, boys. We’ve got eight games left in the regular season but starting tonight we’re in playoff mode. Curfews, extra strategy meetings, morning skates every day except travel days, no excuses.”
No one complains. No one reacts at all, at least externally. Internally I am groaning, big-time. How the hell can I manage that and figure out a routine in this new home life of mine? Plus I have lawyer meetings and I have to get Dylan and me into a lab and do a DNA test for the courts. Mallory won't stay forever, and I'm not going to be able to get a nanny, get the legal paperwork in place, find a more kid-friendly home, and tell my family and team before playoffs start.
Coach turns and exits and then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Crew stares at me with confusion. “You need to talk about something? You look kind of stressed and youneverlooked stressed.”
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff to figure out,” I tell him and before I can elaborate someone else is calling my name.
It’s the security guard outside the locker room door. “You have a visitor.”
“What?” I panic and march to the door. Is it Mallory? Did she come here? Is something wrong with Dylan?
I step into the hall and am confronted with an entirely different Echolls. Chance Echolls, Mallory's dad. He's the general manager for the Brooklyn Barons, so I guess he came with the team on the road trip. But why the fuck is he coming toourlocker room to look forme? He isn’t smiling, but I wouldn’t expect him to. We aren’t friends. In fact, he hates my dad with a burning passion and they came to blows when they were about my age—over my mom.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying not to sound too rude.
“Yeah, maybe,” he says and folds his arms over his chest. His suit crinkles and creases like the corners of his eyes as he frowns. “I know you used to be friendly with Diana Hutchens, my daughter’s best friend.”
“Yeah. A long time ago,” I reply as Quake employees and teammates’ friends and relatives walk by us, all of them doing a double-take. This is highly abnormal, having a person from the opposing team’s management yakking with a Quake player in the hallway, or at all. “I haven’t seen Diana in almost two years.”
“She died.”
“I heard,” I stop myself from adding ‘I’m sorry’ because I would bet money that Mr. Echolls doesn't give a shit that his daughter's best friend died. "It's horrible news. She was a good person."
