“When I signed my contract, she told me to stick close to Ansas because he’s smart and could be a good friend.” He shrugs while I fight the feeling of being punched in the chest. “I couldn’t see it then and told her so. But now I get it. I want to be a smart player, not just a big one, ya know?”
“Yeah, I know,” I say with a suddenly dry mouth. “You’re doing pretty good at it. Good hockey IQ.” It’s true—he might not be the brightest guy off the ice, but his puck sense is solid, especially now that he’s allowed to use it.
He beams. “I’m gonna tell my sis you said that. She’s here tonight to watch—we’re gonna win, right? She’s never seen us win before, and I’d kinda like to make it happen.”
Gline curls his body down, placing his feet precisely on the floor, and then straightens and meets my gaze. In his eyes, I see the same things I’m feeling: excitement, determination, and hope.
I turn back to Vitter. “That’s the plan.”
The plan might have beena bit ambitious.
By the end of the second period, we’re tired and demoralized. It’s not that we’re playing badly, because we’re not. We’re actually playing better than we ever have before. The problem is that we just can’t get any fucking traction.
For every goal we score—and there have been two—the Morningstars score one also. They’re stronger than us defensively, and it’s only because Gline has apparently gained the ability to stretch his limbs to ridiculous lengths that they’ve only managed to score another two on top of that. Seriously, if doing handstands is what allows him to do this, then I’ll be right there to spot him whenever the fuck he needs.
We’re playing better than we used to, but it’s still not good enough.
“Alright, listen up,” our captain bellows. He’s been talking quietly with Coach, but now I guess it’s time for our pep talk before we head back out there to finish getting slaughtered. “This attitude you’re giving right now fucking sucks, and it’s gonna stop.”
This is new.
“Yeah, the ’Stars are winning, but only by two goals. There’s a whole fucking period left. You think we can’t score two goals in a period? Of course we fucking can!”
I mean… theoretically, yes. I can’t remember a time when we have…. But then, I also can’t remember a time we played this well against the Morningstars.
My back straightens. I’ve already scored one goal tonight, and it made me feel like a god. I can do that again.
“Shut the fuck up with this ‘wah wah, we’re losers’ bullshit. I got a kid at home who doesn’t want to come to my games because all we do is lose, and I’m fucking fed up with that. I wanna win something, and tonight’s a good time to start. So you dickheads better dig the fuck in and make it happen.”
I never thought our captain was particularly good at the encouragement or inspiration parts of his job—honestly, I didn’t think he was all that good at any part of his job. But I guess I was wrong, because all around the room, tired, discouraged faces are settling into lines of determination and focus.
Yancey jerks his chin at Gline. “You’ve been a fucking wall tonight, man. Thirty-two shots blocked so far. Think you can hold them off for a little longer?”
Gline scoffs. “Like it’s hard.”
Coach folds his arms across his chest and smirks.
Despite our best efforts,we lose.
It fucking burns me up inside to lose in a motherfucking shootout. We’ve been working so hard on learning to play as a team, a cohesive unit, and the game comes down to a shootout. There’s no team effort there.
Gline looks like someone pissed in his cereal and then made him eat it. He managed to hold off another eleven shots. He’s a damn superhero, and if anybody here even thinks to blame him for letting in that last goal, I’m gonna forget every warning Coach gave me and go full slasher kitty on their asses. But I’m pretty sure Gline’s the one blaming himself, which is kind of funny, because I blame myself. I can do better than this. I need to be a better teammate, be more vocal on the ice when I see opportunities and potential problems. I’m used to keeping myhead down and bullying my way through games, and that’s not good enough anymore.
My phone is vibrating in my cubby, but I can’t bring myself to check it. All I want to do is wallow in this loss for a little while, stinking of my own game sweat and failure. I forgot how much more it hurts to lose when you’re hoping you can win.
“Gentlemen,” Coach calls, and the low, despondent grumble falls silent. “Well done tonight.”
Someone, I can’t tell who, squeaks in shock. I know exactly how he feels, because since when does a coach congratulate his team on losing?
“The loss is disappointing,” he continues, “which it should be. It should make you angry. It should hurt. That’s what will make you hungrier for the win.” He looks around the room, meeting each of our gazes. “We lost tonight, and that fucking sucks. But you were in this game right until the very end. You took it to ashootout. When was the last time this team did that? Fuck, when was the last time this team took a game to OT, or even had a tied score and the crowd screaming in the last few minutes of the third? You played an epic fucking game tonight, boys, and you’re going to have an epic fucking season.” He pauses to let that sink in. “We’ve got some work to do. Tonight showed us we have some weaknesses, some holes that need to be filled, but it also showed us we’ve got what it takes to fix those. Get some rest tonight, because when we get home, we won’t rest until we win.”
I join the roar from my teammates, surprised I have it in me and that one little speech was enough to lift my despondent mood. The thing is, though, Coach is right. This wasonegame, the first game of the season. We have plenty of time to make up for it, and we’re going to get better. Wearebetter, because for sure we’ve never played like this before. We scored those goals we needed in the third. We went the whole damn game withoutany dirty play—the two penalties we got were inconsequential, the kind of thing every team expects to get—and we have absolutely never done that before.
I didn’t get angry. I almost did, when one of the Morningstars players tripped me. In the past, I would have gone after him and earned my own penalty—probably a major, or even a game misconduct. Not this time. Instead, I stayed focused, took advantage of the power play, and fucking scored.
So we lost one game. It’s disappointing, but it’s over. No team wins every game; it’s just not possible. The trick is to win enough to prove you’re better than the other teams, and we’ve still got a chance to do that.
Feeling better, I pull off my jersey and toss it in the laundry hamper, then bend to untie my skates. My phone buzzes again, and as soon as my skates are off, I reach for it.
