The flight attendants begin the safety spiel. I force myself to listen, even though I could recite it from memory.
Anything to avoid thinking about the fact that in more than twenty years in the NHL, I have never missed a meeting. Not as a player. Not injured. And never as a coach.
“You okay, Coach?”
God, I wish people would stop asking me that question. I got it from my coaches when we landed yesterday. I heard it from Elliot this morning after I didn’t answer her texts last night. I heard it from Rose at the morning skate right after the team meeting.
I’m ready to make it an Otter Organization policy that people can’t question my degree of okayness.
I turn to the most recent guilty party. Will Oliver looks at me expectantly as he fastens his helmet.
“Fine, Oliver.” I try not to sound pissed off but it comes out that way anyway.
Will doesn’t seem to notice. “Okay, cool! You just had that spaced out look on your face, you know? Like you’re a million miles away. Happens to me all the time. Playoffs are crazy, right? So much going on. It’s hard to stay focused with so many distractions.”
If only he knew the nerve he just hit. Because distractions have never been an issue. They bounce off me like rain on waterproof fabric. I repel distractions. Block them out entirely.
Or at least I did.
Over the last few months, Elliot has broken through my defences. It happened so gradually, stretched out over so many weeks that I didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late.
I know none of this is Elliot’s fault. You can’t blame the sun for being too bright. Just like you can’t blame Elliot for existing and being perfect.
No, I have no one to blame for this but myself. I’ve allowed myself to be distracted at the worst possible time. We’ve made it to the Eastern Conference finals. And we’re playing against Boston. They lead the league in points this year and they won’t be easy to beat.
The teams take to the ice for warm up. I watch my guys go through the motions like any other game, but it’s not any other game. I know that. They know that. Everyone in the arena knows that.
Back in the dressing room, I lean against the wall as Michaels gives the team a pep talk. I may be uncertain about most things at the moment, but I’ve never regretted making Ben captain. He’s taken on the role with maturity and care and I know that every one of my players would follow him over a cliff if he asked.
Duringfinal warm up, I try to lock myself in but I keep getting distracted. The bass filled music they fill the air with, the images on the jumbo screen, it’s all too much. Some kids pound on nearby glass and I glance up into the stands for the first time.
Unsurprisingly, the place is packed. I expect sold-out crowds at every game of the series and while it’s mostly a sea of Boston yellow, I spot a decent number of Otters fans around the arena.
An older couple having their picture taken down by the glass catches my attention. Their backs are to me and I can easily read STETSON on both, accompanied by my father’s number. I look around again, slower this time. I notice more of his jerseys in the crowd. A lot more. It’s easily spotted thanks to the vintage style and his number on the sleeve.
I’m distracted enough, the last thing I need getting in my head is my father.
The final warm ups finish and the teams head back to their benches. I pat my guys’ shoulders as they pass me and take their seats.
The announcer’s voice booms over the loud speaker introducing our team’s starting line up. One by one, my guys skate out onto the ice as their names are called. There are a few polite claps and cheers, but mostly boos. Austin receives the loudest boos and by the smile on his face, he absolutely loves it.
A pop star I’ve never heard of comes out and sings the Canadian national anthem, followed immediately by the American national anthem. When she finishes her last extended long note, I wait for everyone to take their places at centre ice for the face off.
Instead, the announcer’s voice is back. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest in the Commons Arena this evening. It is my honour and privilege to welcome a man whoneeds no introduction to do the ceremonial first puck drop for tonight’s game.”
Ice settles in my blood.
“Two time Stanley Cup winner, five-time All-Star?—”
Oh Christ, no.
“Please put your hands together for Boston Whaler legend—Edward Stetson!”
Everything happens in slow motion. The spot light focuses on the older man slowly making his way on to the ice. He takes careful steps on the red carpet, waving to the crowd that’s on their feet cheering for them.
Someone claps me on the back, and I force a smile onto my face. For all the cameras pointed at my father, there’s probably as many trained on me. Give the people what they want. And what they want is a proud son watching his father receive a resounding standing ovation.
My father poses for pictures, holding the puck over a mock face off between Austin and Boston’s centre. Then they bring out Boston’s coaches for more pictures.
