Sandro’s question seemed to stump Eli for a moment. “Why what?”
“Why should you have had it?” Sandro pressed. “This is hockey. Things often don’t go our way. Why should it have this time?”
“Because Friedle keeps telling me that I made the roster this year for a reason, and if I play like I did with the Groundbreakers, I’ll be top scorer one day, like you.”
To be fair, the title of top scorer had, for years, gone back and forth between Billy Honeybun and Owen Cotton. Sandro was usually third or fourth, but Honeybun had retired at the end of last season, giving Sandro a chance to take that top first or second spot and prove to management that his body could handle another few seasons.
None of them had gotten to the top by letting one failed goal affect their game, though.
“But the NHL isn’t like the AHL. Not even a little,” Eli continued, jaw uncharacteristically tense. “And no one prepares you for the NHL. It’s fucking criminal. Why isn’t there some sort of transition program?”
Jesus fucking Christ, Sandro had no idea how to handle a rookie about to go off the rails. He looked around for help, but his teammates were busy stretching or eating or doing whatever their intermission rituals dictated. And of course, Cotton was nowhere to be seen. Even Bennett had disappeared, taking himself and his camera into Madolora’s office to record whatever was going on in there between the coaches.
“What’s your favorite thing about hockey?” Sandro asked.
Eli blinked at him. “What?”
“What’s your favorite thing about hockey?” Sandro repeated. “And don’t say winning.”
That, at least, earned him an eye roll and a puff of laughter. “I don’t know. The speed, the action, the skill?—”
“Pick one.”
“The camaraderie,” Eli said instantly. “The sense of family and community that comes from being on a team.”
Sandro nodded. “Good answer. Now look around you. Are any of your teammates—your family—chewing you out for missing that goal?”
Eli’s jaw worked, almost mulishly. “No,” he grumbled, definitely mulishly.
“Because we’re a team, and we win or lose as a team. So keep your chin up, set your frustrations aside, and concentrate on what comes next.”
“Right,” Eli said, visibly squaring his shoulder. “But for real, though—do you think I could be top scorer one day?”
Fucking hell, this kid was going to kill him with earnestness.
There wasn’t any more time for chit-chat, though. They were back on the ice for the third period with Montreal up by one. Their goalie must’ve found religion or whatever during intermission because he came out all scowly and determined and more brick-walled than ever. He made the Trailblazers look like children, which wasn’t a good look for them. What was worse was that every time he blocked one of the Trailblazers’ shots, the Trailblazers grew just that much more frustrated.
That frustration cost them, made them sloppy, and a Montreal player snuck a goal in with only three and a half minutes left on the boards. Sandro saw it happen from the bench and predicted the goal before the puck found the back of the net.
Next to him, Michael Hughes swore under his breath. “Why the fuck are we falling apart tonight?”
“Something in the air, maybe?” Sandro offered.
“Fuuuuuuuck. Losing at home sucks.”
“Hey, there’s still two minutes and forty-eight seconds left.”
Hughes side-eyed him.
“Don’t give me that look. Stranger things have happened.”
“Sure,” Hughes said agreeably. “But not tonight, it won’t.”
He was right. They were both on the ice when they lost to Montreal in their own arena. As Sandro headed back down the chute, he shook off the disappointment. He hated letting the fans down, but he’d been doing this long enough to understand that off days were a real thing.
Some of the younger guys weren’t so well-adjusted.
“What the fuck?” Deeley tossed his stick aside as he entered the locker room behind Sandro. “How did we lose to fucking Montreal?”
