Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
Tonight is our first game with the new lineup, and it happens to be against Knolls’ old team, the Spurs. To get our new star forward, the Saints traded our backup goalie, one of our best defensemen, and a second-round draft pick. I know Knolls is talented, but that feels like a bit of an oversell.
The mood in the locker room reminds me of the last week of school: you’re physically there, but mentally checked out, just counting the minutes until the bell rings and summer break begins. With the season winding down and no shot at making the playoffs, these last games feel like throwaways.
We’re all competitive, so of course, we want to win, but there’s no real payoff so the drive just isn’t the same. Even more so for me, still questioning whether I’ll even be here next season.
The first period ends scoreless. We did well in cutting down their scoring chances, but they returned the favor, keeping us from finding the back of the net.
Our team may not have our usual fire, but the Spurs are out to burn the place down. They’re playing like they have something to prove, and their focus seems to be on proving it to Knolls. They’ve been on him since the puck dropped.
Their determination ramps up in the second period, leading to two back-to-back goals that have us struggling to gain momentum. Things go from bad to worse when our enforcer, trying to stick up for Knolls, gets sent to the penalty box. They capitalize on the power play, netting another goal. By the end of the period, we’re down 0-3.
The final period turns into a full-blown blood bath. Literally. I’m starting to think I’m not alone in my dislike for Knolls. Every time he hits the ice, I catch muttered barbs from his former teammates, words too quiet for me to make out from my spot on the bench.
In his next shift, Knolls pushes through the neutral zone, so focused on advancing the puck that he doesn’t see Henderson, Spurs’ defenseman, barreling toward him. Henderson delivers a brutal check, and Knolls crashes into the boards.
Along with the rest of the guys on the bench, I’m on my feet, trying to get a look at the action. Henderson looms over him, muttering something just out of earshot. Knolls wordlessly pushes himself to his feet, coming away from the hit with a cut across his nose. The tension between them is palpable. Henderson doesn’t back down, chirping something again as Knolls skates away.
Seeing as they played together for years, I expected their reunion to be warmer. Even if we’re competitive on the ice, most of us don’t hold grudges, so I’m not sure what Knolls did to get under Henderson’s skin. My experience with him tells me he probably deserves it, but I’m still curious. Which is why, when he clears the boards and Helm slides onto the bench between us, I lean forward. “What was that about?”
Knolls shakes his head, as our team’s trainer cleans the cut on his face.
The score stays lopsided, with the Spurs piling on the pressure while we scramble to maintain some semblance of defense. When the final buzzer sounds, they haven’t scored again but still take the win. A shutout.
The mood in the locker room afterward is a mix of frustration and relief. At least it’s over. No one’s talking much, just the sound of gear and skates hitting the floor as everyone rushes through the motions of their post-game routines.
The thought flits across my mind again: Was that one of my last games with the Saints? I’ll be here until the end of the season, but my time is winding down and the uncertainty continues to gnaw at me.
On the team bus, I take a seat in an unoccupied row, securing my headphones and leaning my head against the cold glass window, finally able to take a deep breath and unwind. Or so I think, until the last person I want to sit next to plops down beside me. I take my headphones off and rest them around my neck.
“I don’t need you giving me the nice-guy act, Logan,” Knolls seethes.
I only let out a huff of breath, quickly running out of energy for his bullshit.
He’s clearly not good at reading body language, because he takes it as an invitation to explain himself. “I don’t need you fighting my battles for me. I’m fully capable of handling it myself. You’re not fooling me and being good-old-pal Ryan isn’t going to make us friends again. It’s not going to stop me from going after what I want, so cut the shit. Okay?”
What kind of friends does he have? He thinks asking what the deal is counts as an offer of friendship? If it were Fox, I would’ve dropped the gloves and picked a fight with the guy boarding him, not casually asked what’s going on.
“Don’t worry. I’m not trying to be your friend, jackass.”
“Yeah, okay, good,” Shifting, he eyes me before shaking his head, then rises to find another seat.
After checking in with Hannah, I pull up our Saints’ Sinners group chat.
Dominic Fox:
You are really falling apart without me.
Miles King:
Pretty sure you guys started sucking when you lost me.
Ilya Volkov:
You should both drink some milk for your weak bones.
Dominic Fox:
Not sure that helps with concussions. But I do love a glass with ice cubes.
Miles King:
What kind of monster puts ice in milk?!
Dominic Fox:
You’re the one breaking bones. Don’t knock it until you try it.
Miles King:
Me:
Can we decline the comments from the peanut gallery? Volk and me are the only ones keeping this team going.
Dominic Fox:
You sure that’s not Knolls now? Just saying…
Ugh. I shove my phone into my pocket, though the incessant buzzing continues.
T-minus six days until I’m back home.