Coach shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “That’s an amazing attitude but not one that the world wants you to have. When it comes to this sport, the media and the fans are always trying to pit sons against fathers. Ask mine. It’s why my son Dec stopped playing.”
“I think Nash felt the pressure more than me,” I tell Coach as we turn the corner of the arena hallway towards the VIP. “But never enough to quit.”
“I have a feeling you two wouldn’t quit for anything.”
“Wouldn’t quit what?”
I look over my shoulder and Nash is in the hallway a few feet behind us. He must have come out of the restroom. I smile. “Hockey. No matter how much pressure there is.”
“Yeah. Never,” Nash says solemnly like he’s taking the Boy Scout oath or something.
“You boys better get ready,” Coach says before he walks into the lounge and over to my dad who is in the corner of the room, arm around my mom’s back.
I give them both a quick wave and head to the dressing room. They got to town last night and Nash and I had dinner with them so it’s not our first time seeing them. Still Nash hesitates before following me the few steps across the hall to the dressing room entrance. “Should we go in and let the staff snap a pic or two?”
“You mean Christine?” I question, and he nods. Nash rarely refers to the back office staff by their names. He’s always using departments. “PR lady” or “the marketing guy” or “Staff” and it makes me nuts. “She got shots when we walked in and Dad was there to greet us. She says she’s more interested in covering the San Diego game and ceremony next month. Wants to put a Quake spin on it so the Saints don’t take all the glory.”
“Dad played for the Saints,” Nash notes the obvious. “It’s their glory.”
"Yeah, but she says there's a Quake angle, with the way we're making our own legacy away from Dad's team and history," I explain. "Speaking of history, I assume Coach talked to you about his plans for delaying the C announcement?”
Nash nods tersely. “Yeah. And I bet you told him it’s okay, didn’t you?”
“Well, basically, yeah.” I shrug as we dodge half-naked teammates to make it to our own dressing room stalls that are right beside each other this year. “You didn’t? I mean it’s his call, Nash. He’s the coach.”
"I said I was disappointed because it would have been great to do it today and also finally clear up all the media speculation.” He sighs as he shrugs out of his pale gray suit jacket. “But I guess the speculation doesn’t bother you since you hardly talk to the press. I’m the one fielding all the Captaincy questions.”
“I’ve been asked a few times,” I reply defensively. “I just don’t let it bother me.”
“Must be nice not to care enough to be bothered.”
"Stop being a dick, Nash," I snap. "I care. Just because I don't hinge my entire life and personality on it doesn't mean I don't care. Now will you shut the fuck up so I can get ready in peace and enjoy the moment we're about to have? It's going to be epic to watch that banner go up with or without a C on my jersey.”
He mutters something I don't hear and turns his back to me as he unbuttons his dress shirt. Good. He's stewing in private. I act like he isn't here as I get out of my suit and into my game gear. I joke with Collingwood tease Hendrix and take over the playlist pumping out the pre-game tunes through the speakers. Everyone is in high spirits except for Nash.
We're playing the Seattle Winterhawks in the opener. They've got Grady Garrison as their goalie. He's another of Tate's billion cousins. I try not to think about facing him on the ice. I definitely avoid thinking about the fact that he is also related to Olivia. It's weird to think of her and him being relatives since I've seen them both naked.
The intro is complete chaos. The crowd is on fire and so loud that I swear my eardrums will ring all the way into next week. Everyone settles down a little as the montage of our last season plays on the Jumbotron. The entire current roster is lined up at center ice staring up at the screen. I feel every moment deep in my chest and I swell with pride. God, it was a magical season. And for the first time, I'm not exhausted thinking about doing it again. I'm energized.
Our former Captain, Burroughs, walks onto the ice when the video ends and the crowd roars. After going down the line and hugging every guy he hugs me and stands next to me since I'm the last in line. He leans in. "Do it again, Westy One."
Burroughs has been with the team since Nash and I were drafted and he nicknamed us Westy One and Westy Two. I smile but it’s tinged with sadness as I realize we’ll likely never hear those nicknames again. End of an era.
The banner goes up and I know I can’t be the only one fighting emotion. I look up as I skate to the bench. The friends and family section is to the left of our tunnel and there, in the middle of it, is my mom and dad. Mom waves like an excited teenager and wipes her eyes. Dad nods with a proud grin on his face and gives us both a goofy, typical dad thumbs up. My gaze drops and I see a row of familiar faces. The Garrisons. Jordan and his wife and Tenley. Mae Garrison is beside Tenley. Also, Devin Garrison, Tate's uncle is there and Liv's mom. I recognize her mom because I saw her when I was younger at hockey stuff that my dad and the Garrisons attended. Nash and I always begged to tag along. I guess Liv never wanted to go to those things, like league-wide charity events or All-Star games because I would have met her sooner. And two gray-haired people who must be the grandparents. And… between the grandparents, handing them both tissues as they clap and shed tears, is Olivia.
I wasn’t expecting to see her here tonight, because she notoriously avoids hockey stuff, but it’s a very pleasant surprise. We lock eyes and I flash her a grin. She looks away, but not before I catch a hint of a smile on her lips too.
Unfortunately, the rest of the night isn't filled with pleasant surprises, just unpleasant ones. Like some shitty penalties against us, two very sloppy goals by the Winterhawks, and no response from us, sloppy or otherwise. The game ends with a loss. Two-nothing. We didn’t even score. I only got two shots on net and while one hit the crossbar the other was easily gloved by their Grady.
Coach Braddock is more than a little grumbly when he joins us in the locker room after the game. "Not the start we wanted. It's the end that matters and to ensure we immediately turn this around and are in playoff position at the end of the season, I want everyone in the breakdown room tomorrow at eight."
There’s not even a murmur of protest even though I know inside, the guys are groaning as hard as their muscles. I am. The breakdown room is where we go over footage of previous games. I have a feeling we will be painfully dissecting every minute of this disaster to ensure it doesn’t happen again. Coach heads for the door but not before turning to me and pointing. “I want you taking press today. Nash too. And Garrison and Collingwood. Not Hendrix though. You hit the showers.”
Duke nods without lifting his head. He should have had both those goals that sailed over his left shoulder. The fact that Coach doesn't want him to own up to that with the press is weird. He's usually all about accountability.
I towel the sweat off my face and throw a cap on my damp hair. As the media files in I also pull off my pads and my Under Armor. It’s ridiculous but I get less of the hard-hitting questions when I’m half naked with my ink on display. And I’ll use any trick in the book right now, to make this go easier.
The media is like a school of sharks that smell blood in the ocean. They act like this one loss has set the tone for the rest of the season. Like we’re done before we even began. They love to tear down the winners. I hate this part of the job, but I manage to keep my answers positive, calm, and unbothered. Nash does the same but that’s Nash no matter what. Robot.
