You know what puts things back together, even if it’s at a snail’s pace? Small talk. Small talk can fix all ails.
“Heya, Chef,” I called into the kitchen as I went by.
“Hi,” she called over her shoulder, walking toward the back of the kitchen.
“Starting to warm up outside,” I said, staying behind my designated floor tile like the well-behaved student I was.
“Yep,” she said, short of breath while she slipped mitts on her hands to get a pan from the oven.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to text you. You left your knife roll at my house.”
“Did I?” she asked. “That’s my backup anyway. You can just leave it there. I’ll use it next time I come over.”
Well, at least that meant she was coming over again and hadn’t completely filed me away. “You don’t need it for the cooking school?”
She scrunched her nose and muttered a soft “shit.”
“I’ll bring it by. Or,” I scratched my head and felt suddenly on the spot, “I can bring them into work?”
She gave me a grimace of a smile. “Whatever works. If you’ll excuse me.” She let out a loud, “Corner! Hot pan!” as she went out.
The puck slidunder my leg pad and into the net. “Dammit.”
My ass was about to get pulled.
I stood, swiped the puck out of my net, and whipped off my helmet, tossing my hair. I grabbed my water bottle and squirted some on my face, in my mouth, and down my back. Why wasI frazzled by fucking Pittsburgh? Everything felt off, and for no good reason.
I’d been having the best season of my life, and it kept getting better. But on this night, I was falling apart. No one was talking about it, but we were all thinking it: keep this up and we could go all the way.
We’d been to the playoffs the year before and lost in the second round. Granted, it was the Rusties’ first time making it in over a decade, but in hockey, if you didn’t make it all the way, you didn’t make it.
And if we didn’t make it this time, it was going to be hard for me to think it wasn’t my fault.
I wanted to throw my gear. Break my stick. Sink my teeth into leather. I settled for grinding my teeth on the league patch in the neck of my jersey.
I shook my head looking up at the score. That was the third goal this period to get past me. The game was now tied 4-4.
I could blame it on our defense. Garner and Lindberg had been playing like absolute shit lately, but the rest of the team had been limping them along. But blaming them didn’t change my current situation.
There was a set of season ticket holders on this end who always consoled me after I let one past me. I heard their gentle pats on the glass to the right of my goal. But I also heard another set of slaps. I looked up while grabbing my water bottle to find Emma, softly pounding the glass. She mouthed, “You got this,” and tapped her temple. I could hear her words from my kitchen.
Clear your head.
I hadn’t been pulled in my whole time at the Rusties. I didn’t want my first time getting pulled to be in front of Emma. Hell, she was probably only out of the kitchen this late in the game because she heard I was struggling.
The last time I got pulled was in the AHL, and our coach laid into me.
You should have had that.
What happened on that goal?
How could you let that get past you?
Memories of that moment replayed on my darkest days.
But Emma’s words hit me again.What needs to happen next?
Shake it off.
