32. Jack
32
JACK
I step onto the ice knowing it’s not going to be a good game. I’ve played enough hockey to know when I’m in the zone. And I am not in the zone. I’ll play well, maybe even good. That’s what being a professional is mostly about: being able to turn it on with discipline, not motivation.
But will I be great? Will I be epic?
Doubtful.
I can’t get my argument with Dad out of my head. I’m still angry at him for barging into my apartment and trying to tell me who I can and can’t date after showing no interest in my personal life. I tried to make our relationship work for the longest time because he’s the only family I have, but I don’t think I can do it anymore.
“Hey, you good?” Fuentes asks over the pumping music. We’re skating around the rink to warm up, stands full of spectators watching us. It’s a packed arena.
I find the coach from Hudson University watching with a trained eye on me. A pit grows in my stomach. In my high school days, when I knew a scout or coach was coming to check me out, it added fuel to my fire. Now I only have nausea.
I look away and to my surprise, my sightline lands on June and Annabelle with a woman who must be their mom. They wave little flags for their dad, their tiny bodies balancing precariously on the bleachers. They spot me and flail their arms in a wave. It’s so sweet that it nearly lifts me out of my funk.
“I’m good,” I tell Fuentes and skate off.
The crowd erupts into cheers when the Comebacks join the ice. Griffin does a lap around the rink. He shoots me a smile through his face shield.
I clock June and Annabelle going nuts for their dad. It makes me wish I had that kind of parental relationship.
The mayor makes a short speech, something about the power of community. I zone out and try to get my mindset right.
Once he’s done, we get into starting position. I face off against Bill Crandell for the puck drop. Griffin’s in back as defense, his eyes on me. I force myself to get my head in the game, but all the good juju has melted away. When I look at Bill, I see Dad’s horrified expression from the parking lot. I see my old NHL coaches telling me I’m being traded. I see Mom’s face one last time before she’s gone.
Bill gets the puck and skates right past me. It’s an embarrassing start to the game, and sets the tone for my wobbly performance. I struggle through the first period with missed passes and poor positioning that disrupt the flow of our team’s offense. I whiff several key faceoffs, leaving the defense scrambling to recover. On a crucial power play, I mishandle the puck, leading to a turnover that results in a shorthanded goal. At the end of the first period, the Comebacks are up two-zip. I skate back to the bench, head down, unable to look at my teammates.
“Hey, what’s going on out there?” Miller asks.
“Having a rough start,” I mutter. I shuffle to the opposite end of the bench, away from him and everyone. I want to be alone so I can hopefully work through my shit before the next period. But I keep thinking about how I’m a guy with no family and no job. I’m sure after this game, my friends will probably drop me, too.
That crappy mindset naturally leads to a nightmare of a second period. I can’t connect on a single pass, and every time the puck comes to me, it feels like I was handling a live grenade. I have two golden chances to bury it, wide open, and I whiff on both. My timing is off, my positioning is off, and I can feel the frustration from my teammates with every shift. I can’t stomach looking into the stands at the Hudson University coach, if he’s even still here.
Worse, each time I get into his zone, I can feel Griffin’s concerned eyes on me. With a minute left, I have a clean one-timer set up, and I still miss, leading to Griffin’s fellow defenseman scooping up the puck and scoring. I want to sink through the ice.
With one period left, the Comebacks are up four-zip.
“Dude, what the hell is going on?” Arturo asks. I skate past him without an answer. I keep my distance from my teammates on the bench. When the third and final period starts up, I’m essentially a zombie on the ice. My teammates have realized I’m useless and are avoiding me for plays, acting like I’m not even there.
“Time-out!” Griffin calls. The ref blows his whistle.
I skate to the bench. My teammates look at me like I’m crazy.
Fuentes grabs my shoulder. “Buddy, talk to me,” he pleads.
I don’t have an answer for him. I go to the bench, drink water, and sulk. I feel myself spiraling deeper into this hole.
“Gross.”
I look up and find Griffin at our bench.
“Come with me,” he says.
“You can’t call a time-out with the other team,” Fuentes says.
“I need to speak with my boyfriend,” Griffin says, shutting everyone up. He holds out his hand to me, and we skate to the center of the ice. The whole crowd murmurs, wondering what the hell is going on. I’m right there with them.
“Griffin, what are you doing?” I take off my helmet.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” His face is etched with concern. He’s not my opponent. He's in full boyfriend mode.
The way he gazes at me with that penetrating dark eye quiets all the noise around us. It’s like we’re in his truck bed at night again, the world a far-off place.
“I’m in my head, and I can’t get out.”
“What are you thinking about?”
I glance into the stands, and the Hudson University coach watches with the rest of the crowd. I’m surprised he’s still here.
“I don’t want to coach,” I blurt out.
“Okay.”
“Okay? It’s not okay. There is a coach in the stands who could offer me an assistant coaching job. And that can lead to head coaching jobs, and it can get my shitty life back on track.”
“Is that what you want?”
I laugh at such a direct question. In all my wondering about my future and this opportunity, it’s something I’ve never been asked. Something I never asked of myself.
“Of course it’s what I want. It’s a path to a coaching career. There are tons of former hockey players who successfully segue into coaching.”
Griffin clamps his hands on my shoulders. “Is that what you want?”
He won’t let go until he gets a real answer out of me, not some pre-rehearsed drivel I’m spouting off. His eye is a truth serum I can’t fight.
“Why don’t I want it, Griffin?”
“You’ve been playing hockey your whole life. Maybe you want a change.”
“Whoa. I have been playing my whole life.” Ever since I mastered balancing on two feet, I’ve been playing hockey. Dad took me on the ice when I was four, and I basically haven’t gotten off. Imagine working in the same career since you were a toddler. No wonder why so many child stars go to rehab.
“I never went trick-or-treating as a kid. Each year, Halloween fell during a practice.”
Griffin tips his chin up to me. “Jack, you are young, you are smart, and you are hard working. You can do anything.”
“Anything?” I scoff.
“Yes, anything. You’re too young to settle for a job you don’t love. Sometimes, I wish I’d let myself explore my options after leaving hockey.”
“What if I suck at everything?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I give the coach one last look and then put him out of my mind. “I’m kinda scared. But a good scared.”
“You have an exciting future ahead of you, I promise you that. Everyone here is rooting for you, even the people rooting for the Comebacks.”
But there’s one person missing, and it digs into my heart.
“Griffin,” I begin, my voice cracking. “Will I ever talk to my dad again?”
I exhale a tight breath, hating myself for admitting this. He’s an asshole, but he stayed up with me all night when I got sick. He gave me pep talks when I had a bad game. He hugged me so close and told me we’d be okay after Mom left.
“I wish there was one game he could watch of mine where he wasn’t thinking about my career, where he could just watch me play.”
“Jack.” Griffin points to the double door entrance. Dad strolls in and walks up to the glass. A knot in my chest begins to loosen.
My throat goes dry, and I swear, if I weren’t surrounded by a full arena, I might start crying. Gone is Dad’s scowl, and in its place, for the first time, is a face that beams pure pride.
He looks at me and taps his heart twice.
How did he decide to come? I turn to Griffin. He winks at me.
“I love you, Ringer. And I’m not going anywhere.”
A bolt of confidence surges through my system. My muscles flex, ready to get back to action.
“Game on,” I say to Griffin. “Let’s show these fans a real hockey match.”
We skate back to our respective teams. My teammates openly gawk at me, likely full of questions. But this isn’t a cracker barrel session. We have a fucking hockey game to win.
“All right. Let’s get back out there!” I yell, suddenly finding myself overcome with all the good juju. My teammates cheer back, our energy going through the roof.
We charge onto the ice with renewed vigor. The ref blows the whistle, and we’re back. We are so back.
The rest of the period is a rush of excitement. Every player, Comeback and Blade, is firing on all cylinders. I fire off a crisp pass to Fuentes who gets the puck in the slot and nails a shot right past the goalie. A few minutes later, Miller and I set up a give-and-go that leaves the defender flat-footed, and Miller buries the puck on the resulting shot.
With five minutes left, I crash the net, scooping up the rebound and jamming it into the open side before the goalie can recover.
“Someone’s gotten their mojo hack,” Fuentes says. “If we can score one more goal, we can tie this thing and beat them in overtime.”
In the final minutes of the game, it quickly becomes the Griffin and Jack show. The rink is electric, Griffin and I going head-to-head like gladiators on ice. Every rush, I’m blazing down the boards, only to be met by Griffin on defense, who anticipates my every move, shutting down lanes with precision. When he manages a clean break, I chase him down, forcing a turnover with a perfectly timed poke check. We push each other to the brink—one setting up brilliant plays, the other thwarting them with sheer will and skill. Each moment is a showcase of grit, talent, and unrelenting determination that has the arena on the edge of their seats.
This is the best hockey I’ve ever played in my whole fucking life. Griffin and I are playing on a different level, turning this grizzly sport into a beautiful ballet.
I spin past Griffin, raise my stick, and take my shot just as the buzzer goes off. The puck launches through the air, straight at the goal, hurtling like an asteroid about to wipe out the dinosaurs.
Instead of the satisfying ding of the bell, I hear the snap of the Hank’s glove closing shut. Even he looks at his glove in shock. The arena goes dead silent. He slowly opens his hand, revealing to everyone the puck.
The crowd goes wild. The Comebacks scream and race past me. They raise Hank and carry him around the ice. Pure joy radiates off them.
I skate back to my team, not feeling as dejected by the loss as I thought. By the end, I gave it my all as did every man out there.
“Hey, we played like fucking kings,” Fuentes says. “That last quarter was some of the best hockey I’ve ever seen.” He pounds my fists. “Thank you for bringing it.”
“Glad you could get your mind cleared,” Miller says, eyeing Griffin.
“Can’t wait to meet your new guy.” Fuentes nudges my elbow.
I skate onto the ice where the Comebacks continue to gush over their victory. They immediately skate up to us and begin shaking hands, telling us what a great game we played and meaning it. The Comeback wingers gush to Miller and Fuentes about their plays. It’s a mutual love fest.
I skate over to Dad, his eyes misty.
“That was incredible, Jack,” he says. “Fuck the NHL for dropping you.”
“Thanks.” It’s odd hearing Dad be so effusive. “Hey, I didn’t mean what I said the other night. About not loving you.”
He gives a nod, his jaw tight.
We have a quiet moment, not sure where to go from here. But I hope this is step one in a new era of our relationship.
“I think someone wants to congratulate you.”
Griffin comes up to me and holds his hand out for a shake. I take it and skate us to center ice. His skin is red with sweat. The white of the ice gives this an ethereal moment.
“Good game,” he says. “You almost had it.”
“It’s okay. I still feel like a winner.”
I pull him to my lips for a hot, victorious kiss. Losing has never been this triumphant.