Chapter Thirty-Three
Thirty-Three
Jaylen
In the late morning after pregame skate, I get a text from Ni-chole letting me know that her article on the launch of my charity initiative and my mental health struggles is going live on the team’s website.
I’m too distracted by my mental preparation for the game to give it much attention. I figure people will find something negative to say about me, and I don’t want to get stuck doomscrolling through the tired and uninspired insults. Not to mention, I don’t need that kind of negativity before going into today’s game against the Dallas Stampeders. But once I wake up from my pregame nap, curiosity gets the better of me and I reach for my phone.
The article has gone viral, met with overwhelmingly positive feedback.
The city, the fans, the ones who matter, everyone has nothing but kind and encouraging comments for me. Even some of the hockey reporters who had previously posted that I was past my prime, injury stricken, a lost-cause bust, are changing their tune and singing a praise of perseverance.
I have close to a hundred text messages from friends and family. Everyone read the article and wants to let me know how proud they are of me and my honesty. The team’s group chat is still blowing up; all the guys want to know how they can help with my charity. Guys have offered to donate money or make appearances at future events for Cam’s House. Whatever I need, they all want to help. I can’t wipe the smile off my face no matter how hard I try—my cheeks are starting to hurt.
As I scroll to the bottom of my text message notifications, there’s a text from Lucy. She must have sent it to me minutes after the article went live. I pause briefly before opening it, not wanting it to throw me off my big game. I need to be focused, and Lucy is the only person capable of knocking me off my feet.
Ultimately, I open the text. I’ll only spend the entire game wondering what she sent me if I don’t.
LUCY:
The sentiment is nice, but it’s not the text I wanted to read. It’s been two weeks since our fight, and this is the first I’ve heard from Lucy. Since she stormed out of my apartment, I’ve tried to keep my head down and focus on what’s going on in my life. I kept myself occupied with the playoffs and the charity, but I still think about her constantly. She must be getting ready for her big move to LA—or maybe she’s already there.
My hand hovers over the keyboard wanting to say a million things to her. But I don’t say anything at all.
* * *
Rushing into the offensive zone, I chase the loose puck into the corner, where I battle with a Dallas Stampeders defenseman for possession of the puck. I’m nearing the end of my shift. My legs burn and my lungs feel like they’re going to burst, but the cheers from the crowd let me know there’s blood in the water.
For a split second I think about heading back to the bench for a line change, but when I see Soko—the team’s one-timer specialist—skating up center ice to his go-to spot at the point, I decide I’m going to be the one to feed him the shot.
I can’t let up, no matter how hard I’m huffing through my mouthguard. We’re still down by a goal with ten minutes of play left in the third period. These are the moments I train for. Not the first thirty seconds, but the thirty seconds after that. When I’m stuck out on the ice for a long shift and need to find a way to keep playing through the exhaustion to get a shot on net—or better yet, score a goal.
I battle the puck loose from the Stampeders’ possession. Faster than you can yell “shoot,” I feed Soko a tape-to-tape pass with enough weight behind it to make his one-timer sound like an explosion firing off the blade of his stick. The one-timer finds the back of the net, glove side top shelf. No goalie stood a chance against that bullet.
I jump into Soko’s arms and let out a lively, “Fuck yeah, Soko!” Fans are on their feet cheering so loudly that I can hardly hear myself shout celebratory profanities. Soko’s locked in my tight embrace and surrounded by the rest of our teammates.
“Let’s go, Gucci!” Lamber shouts at Soko from the bench.
It’s right back to business after the tying goal; we can’t let the excitement take our heads out of the game in a moment like that. The team is already dialed back into play, while the fans remain loud as ever, still on their feet.
The time on the clock is dropping fast, and I and the rest of the Rainiers want to finish this one in regulation. We have the momentum, we have the crowd, and we have the new and improved Jaylen Jones.
I’m back on the ice, hungry for my first goal of the game. I know this goalie, Eino Lampi. They call him No Light Lampi because the odds you’re lighting up the goal light behind his net are slim to none. He’s big and fast and an absolute monster in net. It’s rare to get one goal past Eino Lampi, and if you get two in the same period, you should keep the puck.
Lamber gets control of the puck in the defensive zone. He hasn’t been in the league long enough to know the true weight of this moment. Not every hockey player gets to play a sudden-death game seven, and even fewer get to win one. He has been solid on D this series and Coach Pete is rewarding the rookie with ice time in the last shift of the game.
Without an ounce of hesitation, he saucers a pass up center ice and catches the Stampeders’ defense flat-footed. The sauce lands right on my tape, and I’m off as fast as my legs will take me. If you had told me at the start of the season that I would be staring down the best goalie in the league on a breakaway with seconds left in a tied game-seven playoff game, I would have said, No, thank you .
Not only would I have not believed that my game would be good enough to warrant prime ice time like this, but my psyche wouldn’t have been strong enough to handle the pressure a moment like this carries. I can’t remember the last time I was trusted to take the big shot.
This season, I’ve focused on simplifying my game. I’m always in position, my passes are tape to tape, I’m a good fast skater, and I have great vision out on the ice. It’s the basics. It’s not flashy, but it’s reliable. My no-frills breakaway move is to rip a shot off before the goalie has a chance to know it’s coming, but playing it safe isn’t going to get us the win—not against No Light Lampi.
When you’re out there, you don’t even have time to think, let alone second-guess yourself. You get tunnel vision and suddenly you can’t even hear the roar of the crowd. It’s like you’re using the full power of your brain to make your body perform unthinkable acts of physical talent. With no room left for your brain to hear or feel or think, you do .
I knew before the puck landed on my stick that I couldn’t skate down center ice and shoot the puck at the top of the circle. With the clock ticking away, I skate harder than I ever have before. Without second-guessing myself, I’m faking right. Lampi bites. The goalie leaves the left side of his net wide open as he drops to his knees. I pull the puck to my backside. He watches me eye the wide-open shot. Lampi dives across his crease, but it’s too late—even for someone as athletic as him. I’m flipping the puck over his blocker and into the back of the net so fast that it takes the goal light a few beats to finally illuminate crimson red.
The goal horn echoes through the arena, signaling the end of the game. I can hardly hear it over the roar of the crowd.
It’s all over. We won.
The furious Finnish goaltender breaks his stick over the top of his net knowing their series is lost. I charge into the corner jumping up and crashing into the boards. Fans pound on the glass behind me, a thunderous roar that vibrates against the boards.
Lamber comes jumping into my arms, screaming god knows what in French. “Putain, ouais!” he shouts.
Elation courses through my body. “What a pass!” I say.
“Who cares about the pass. What about the deke? You finally dusted off those silky hands, JJ!” Lamber says, still tight in my embrace.
“Silky Hands, now there’s a good nickname.” The adrenaline chatters my teeth as I laugh.
“I’ll call you whatever you want if you keep scoring goals like that.” Lamber gives me a cheeky grin. It doesn’t take long for the rest of the team to catch up and come crashing into us—a dogpile celebration of pure excitement.
Wells sits down next to me in the locker room. “Welcome back, JJ.” He playfully tousles my hair like an older sibling manhandling their little brother. “That’s a move I haven’t seen from you since you were too young and stupid to know it might not work,” he says with a wink.
“Yeah, well, a lot’s changed this season.”
I try to not think about how much I miss Lucy. I just scored the most important goal of my life in the biggest game of my career and all I can think about is how I wish she was here. How I wish I was going home to see her tonight.
Coach Pete enters the room with the giant chain in his hand. Everyone quiets and looks to me. “I think we all know where this is headed tonight. The hustler of the game goes to someone who not only showed no mercy in the face of a two-goal deficit, but also showed courage this month as he bravely shared his story and struggle with anxiety and depression. We’re honored to know you and relieved you’re on our team. Way to go, JJ!” Coach Pete walks the player-of-the-game chain over to me and bestows it around my neck.
My teammates hoot and holler loudly. I bashfully accept their praise, but I’m just happy we won. When the announcers called my name at the start of the game, the fans got to their feet, and I swear I had the biggest ovation. There’s no more hiding who I am out there—everyone knows, and it feels liberating.