The Five Hole (The Games We Play: Season 2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Rory “Roe” Monroe

August

The Bench Social Media Group—a subsection of the Fox River Falls Community Page

Stanley “Stan” Gordon: brEAKING! Guess who just got assigned to our very own Fox River Falls Iceguard? That’s right—former NAPH star, tabloid favorite, and certified disaster, “Roe” Monroe. He reminds me of me back in the day, and he’ll be here this week for training camp.

Marge Calloway: Enough about you, Stan. Let’s get to what matters.

Will he be the spark we need? Will he be back to rehab before he even laces up?

More importantly—who’s taking the over-under on how long before he stirs up trouble?

Somebody better find their way to The Keep today and give us an update.

The thing about first days on a new team is that they’re always a little bit terrible.

Sure, there’s the excitement—new town, new team, new chances—but the first day? It’s just something to get done. A box to be checked.

Another thing I’ve learned is that each first day manages to be horrible in its own unique way. And this one’s just started, so I’m flying blind on what specific kind of horrible it’ll be.

Will it be that my years-long rival, a guy with a grudge against me since Juniors, doesn’t give a shit that we wear the same jersey now? Been there.

Or maybe the coach is not only a dick and a homophobe, but also more interested in keeping the GM happy than the players—had that one in the NAPH for a season.

Could it be that someone solid and dependable on the team resents me for once upon a time being a third-round draft pick who’s still flashy on the ice? That was my last first day.

Right now, I’m sitting in the home locker room of The Keep, which is what the locals call the rink here in Nowheresville—I mean Fox River Falls. Apparently, the town takes their minor league hockey majorly seriously.

Minor league. Minor league.

No matter how I say it, or think it, the words taste bitter.

Everyone knows that I just left rehab for my knee, and the rumors would tell you the rest of the story, although it isn’t pretty.

Truth is, I was rehabbing more than a knee last year.

Prescription pain pills, the league’s dirty little secret, got their hooks into me pretty deep.

The truth isn’t pretty, but it is simple. I was prescribed oxycodone and I abused it to keep playing.

I hear nowadays the league prefers Toradol—which has it’s own issues, although addiction isn’t one of them.

Still, I can’t complain. My NAPH team, the Chicago Knights, didn’t put me on waivers, and instead let me come down here to the Iceguard—the farm team—to see if I still have it.

A year out of the rotation is a long time in hockey memories, but I can still smell the ice at the big show, still hear the roar of the crowd.

It’s hockey purgatory, but I’ve made my peace with needing to atone for my sins.

I have to prove that rehab worked and that my knee is fine. And for those in the know, I have to prove I can maintain.

I owe something to the Knights, but I’m not sure exactly what that is.

No big deal at all.

But still, I can’t help but remember that first day in a different locker room, on different ice, when I knew that I’d made it. My first day in the NAPH, when I had the world in the palm of my hand.

Until I didn’t.

The thing is, I’ve never been minor league. I’ve always been major—all-star, first line, MVP.

Even my worst day of hockey was better than most people’s best. Better than a lot of NAPH players on any given day.

But now I’m here. Past thirty and drifting further from the big show every year.

I glance around the Iceguard locker room.

It’s nice, in the way a JUCO basketball locker room is nice—good for what it is, but nothing like the NAPH.

And that’s what makes it worse in my eyes: the effort they put into it, the pride.

Same with The Keep. Good ice, clear sightlines, lots of craftsmanship in the wood benches and walls .

. . but we had to clear the ice immediately after practice so a travel team of pre-teens could take over.

Fox River Falls has its priorities. Hockey is one of them—just not exclusively the Iceguard.

I try not to sigh, but I can’t help but wonder if this is how my own time here at the Iceguard will be seen. The effort of a guy who no longer has it, made that much more cringe by the fact that he’s trying so damn hard.

Fuck, that was dark. I squeeze my eyes open and shut a few times, trying to keep the low-level panic I feel at bay.

“And we have Roe Monroe joining us,” Coach says, pulling me out of my head and back to the present where he’s wrapping up a post-workout pep talk.

Across from me, a young hotshot—LJ Jameson—blows me a kiss. “I watched you play when I was a kid,” he says with a smirk as Coach ends the meeting.

I roll my eyes. Every minor league team has an LJ, and they all want to make the same damn comment. I wonder how much of my time here will be expected to be spent prepping this kid for the big show, instead of working on my own return.

But then Benji O’Rourke, a big solid defenseman beside me, taps LJ’s thigh with his stick—two quick pops. Fatherly. Benji’s got “team dad” practically stitched into his duffle.

“It’s going to be wild,” Diggs says, all golden retriever energy. If I didn’t know he was the goalie, I’d have guessed it. Diego “Diggs” Martinez is up and down between the Iceguard and the Chicago Knights all the time, and he seems perfectly fine with that arrangement.

“It isn’t going to be wild,” Benji cuts in as Coach walks out. He shoots daggers at Diggs as we start packing up.

Diggs looks from Benji to me. “But you’re Roe Monroe. As in, get in a fight—a row—or a wild night of—“

“Not something I recommend for a career,” I tell him before Benji can smack him with the stick again. LJ’s listening too, I can tell. He’s a hotshot like I was—er, am. Probably could use a real-life lesson in how the bad-boy image only works if you’re winning.

“Sign me up for fun,” I say. “But I keep sober these days,” I add nonchalantly, just in case they heard the rumors, and maybe as a bit of a buffer if they haven’t.

By Benji’s reaction, I’m guessing they have.

“And I try not to do too much stupid shit either. I’d rather be back on the ice for the Knights than on IR.

” I squeeze Diggs’s shoulder lightly, hoping I set some boundaries without coming across as though I’m no fun at all.

“We can still go out, though, right?” he asks, eyes pinging between me and Benji.

I clock Diggs straightway as a guy who lives for the team, the camaraderie.

“I’ll take Roe around town and around The Keep,” Benji says before I can answer. “Let him get settled. We’ll make plans for a team night this weekend.”

“Lame, old man,” LJ says, and I think I’m the old man in this situation, but he winks. So maybe we’re cool.

Since Coach has wrapped up the team meeting, Benji gives me the tour of The Keep. From the upper level, we stop to watch the pre-teens still running drills on the shared ice. I’m guessing they’re a bit younger than Bantam League, but I’m not sure.

There’s one kid, a forward I can tell will be gunning for center when it’s time, who’s flashy—fast, cocky. Typical. But it’s the other kid on the ice who catches my eye. He’s good. Not just talented but technically solid. Disciplined. Polished in a way you don’t see in most kids his age.

“Fox River Falls has a solid kids’ program,” Benji says beside me. “From first skate to Pewee, Bantam, Juniors. Those players are some of our biggest fans. The team encourages us to be involved.”

I nod, turning my attention back to Benji.

“If you’re into mentoring,” he adds with a pointed glance. “The coach and GM would love it. So would the press.”

“Not sure I’m the mentoring type right now.” I laugh. Because Benji can’t be serious. I need to focus on my game and no one else’s.

Benji frowns. “Why not? You’ve got pro stats most players dream of. This town has been in a frenzy since the announcement that you’d be here.”

I bite back the urge to remind him this is temporary.

That I’m not joining the team, not really.

I’m just passing through. Paying my dues.

I’m hopeful I won’t even last the season down here before a call back up, although that’s reaching.

My only focus is showing everyone that I’m still the superstar who put all those stats up in the first place. But saying that out loud won’t help.

As we turn away from the ice, I glance back once more at the kid.

Confident. Quiet. Controlled. I wonder if he actually enjoys the game, or if he’s already carrying the weight of expectations the way I was at his age.

But then he breaks out into a big smile that I can see even from the top of the rink, and I feel my lips wanting to rise in response.

Nah. This kid loves the game. His enthusiasm has a purity to it.

Back in the locker room, Benji leaves me to the work of arranging all my new Iceguard gear, and I make the mistake of counting how many hours stand between me and the next practice.

I kill some time taping my stick and with a million other tasks that don’t need to be done. My brain hums with static.

Sobriety work 101: distraction, habit, control. I’ll get through it, although the lure of something numbing is a tempting bitch.

Eventually, I head out, but the sound of skates on ice draws me back up to the rink.

The kid who caught my eye earlier is still out there, alone, running drills. No coach. No parent. Just focused repetition.

Memories crawl up my spine—my stepdad’s voice barking orders, the pressure, the endless corrections. But this kid? He’s just doing the work.

And he’s having fun with it.

What I’d give to be back where this kid is. To know then what I know now.

Something pulls deep: a longing for the impossible.

Hell, at his age I was perfecting my signature five-hole shot on ice not that much different from The Keep’s.

I’d just watched Oshie at the Olympics hand team USA a massive win over the Russians with four shootout goals in six attempts, including scoring through the five-hole.

Twice. Against Sergei Bobrovsky at that.

I feel a smile cross my face. How long has it been since I’ve thought about that?

I won a game for the Knights in a shootout two years ago, with a five-hole shot that had been highlighted on SportsCenter so much it landed on the end-of-year reel.

But I don’t think even that moment made me reminisce about my misspent summer of trick-shots and accuracy drills like watching this kid does.

I whistle and the kid looks up. I toss him a puck and step out on the ice, not in skates, but I have my stick. He adjusts effortlessly to my flat-footedness without the skates, looping his drill around me like I’m one of the cones he had out before I joined him.

We go back and forth for maybe twenty minutes, until I hear his phone go off and he stops, pulls the phone from his pants, and taps it silent, then he pulls off his helmet and walks toward me.

“Thank you, Mr. Monroe,” he says, polite and steady. “It was an honor to share the ice.” He even sticks out his hand for me to shake.

I smile. It’s nice to be recognized without having to introduce myself. “Well, you have me at a disadvantage. What’s your name?”

“Jamie Thatcher.”

I grin wider at the young man. “That’s a strong name. A hockey name.” I tap the side of my head. “Worth remembering, I bet.”

“Thanks.” He gives a glance up, past the seats to where Benji and I were leaning this morning. “My dad’s here, but thanks again.”

“You better go, then,” I tell him with a smile, unsure how to tell a Pewee-level player that the twenty minutes on the ice with him killed a lot of noise in my head. Truly, I’m grateful.

Jamie moves to gather the cones and pucks left over from his drills, but I wave him off. “I’ve got it. Don’t leave your dad waiting.”

I glance up and then I see him—Jamie’s dad, leaning on the railing above the ice with an unreadable expression.

And holy hell, Jamie’s dad is hot.

I check myself. This isn’t Chicago, and I need to remember that.

Still, I clock the broad shoulders, large hands, and light eyes sharp enough to draw blood even from a distance.

His hair’s a little long on top—as though he forgot to cut it, not because it’s a style—and he’s a big guy, but somehow his muscle hangs lean, as if his body’s used to movement.

His handsome face is covered with a little bit of scruff that’s darker than his brown hair.

My stomach clenches as desire heats my veins.

Flannel never looked so damn good.

I avoid running my eyes down to the denim that’s cradling his thighs, but I can still see enough from the corner of my eye.

I think about a wave, flashing a smile, or starting something flirtatious.

Instead, I turn and start packing up the cones.

As far as first days go, this one wasn’t half bad.