Chapter 5
Dexter
It’s the last game before the league’s holiday break. Everyone is ready, as usual, but there’s an added restlessness in the locker room.
As the captain, my job is to harness that restlessness into victory.
When Coach Zach finishes his spiel, it’s my turn to speak for thirty seconds. My teammates track my movements as I take my place in the middle of the room.
“We’re at the top of the division. This is not the time to lie back. We came this far, but we aren’t done. Not even close. So, tell me . . .” I pause before increasing my volume.
“Do we want to win more than they do?” I shout.
“Hell yeah!” the room roars.
“Are we leaving everything on the ice for the next sixty fucking minutes?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Tell me, boys. Are the Mavericks about to kick some Predator ass?”
“Hell yeah!”
Our cheers merge with the deafening roar of the arena when we skate onto the ice.
I don’t see them, but I feel my family and Sabrina’s presence in the building. This is the first time the four most important people in my life are watching me together on the biggest stage of the sport I love.
It’s invigorating.
Tonight’s matchup is plenty fast and a little dirty, as expected. There’s been a season-long rivalry between our power forward, Lance Jefferson, and the top Nashville defenseman, Victor Varlamov.
The NHL is a league of large men barreling down the ice at the speed of a car. Throw in sharpened blades on our feet, the largest sticks in organized sports, and a variety of vicious grudges, and you’ve got the best athletic event in the whole fucking world.
Every chance I can rock someone against the board with a solid hit, I take it. I love the physical part of the game. As centerman, my responsibilities are on the defensive as well as the offensive ends.
As captain, I must remain in control, especially when my teammates are this fired up.
Our goaltender, Jeremy, is a beast tonight. The entire team is fighting to keep his shutout, boosting our efforts to hold a 2 – 0 lead.
The win is a great start to our three-day holiday break. Everyone is in high spirits when we get into the locker room.
I’ll be out soon, I add to a text thread my wife created for my visiting family.
My wife.
I ordered them a car service on the way in, but we’ll all be driving home in my SUV.
When I exit the locker room, the first thing I see is Sabrina wearing a jersey with my name across her back. The surge of possessiveness nearly makes me choke.
She’s never worn any jersey except one with Ramirez. That’s a point of pride I’ve shared with her. She’s a professional player, not a spectator.
But with her back to me and her hair swinging in a high ponytail, the letters spelling Whitby never looked so good.
“There he is,” my father says from my right side. The sight of Sabrina made me forget everyone else, including the rest of my family.
Flustered, I overcompensate by giving them all my attention. It’s a warm, heartfelt reunion. We kiss and hug. I ask about their flights. Mom tells me she’s picked colors for the nursery.
Wait, did she say nursery?
My face must have registered confusion because everyone laughs. I chuckle along but can’t shake a thought: raising kids isn’t as alarming as I’d assumed it would be.
Not if I’m doing it with Sabrina.
Seeking her out, I’m surprised to find the two Mavericks goaltenders—Randi and Jeremy—hogging her attention and leaning in too close.
A few brisk strides carry me to my wife’s side.
My wife.
“Oh, hey,” she says, smiling up at me. “Do you like the jersey your parents got for me at the gift shop? They were appalled that I didn’t already have one.”
“It looks great on you, Sabrina,” I say past my dry throat.
She looks incredible. Different from the fancy holiday party and yet just as glowy. Is that even a word? It should be.
Sabrina is glowy. A source of light that makes everything around her sparkle.
“Are you netminders getting schooled by my goalie wife?” I sling my arm over her shoulders.
“We were asking about her disk replacement,” Jeremy says. “It’s cutting-edge back surgery, right?”
“How’s the recovery been?” Randi asks before Sabrina can answer. “Are you coming back on net, or is this it for you?”
“Hey, watch it,” I growl.
The guy is infamous for his lack of tact. Still, I can’t believe he would speak the unspeakable. Sabrina hasn’t brought up her intentions about returning to hockey. I’m here to support her decision, no matter what.
She doesn’t have to explain herself to anyone.
“Not exactly,” she answers with no resentment or hesitation. “If I had a disk fusion instead of a disk replacement, I would have completely lost my flexibility. After the successful surgery and with the right physical therapy, I can at least start my fitness conditioning. We’ll see from there.”
“That’s right, one step at a time,” Jeremy adds. “Where are you going for PT in Columbus?”
Sabrina gives the name of the best physical therapy practice in the region.
“I’ve worked with them for years. They know what to do,” Jeremy says with confidence. “Make sure you ask for Kyle directly. He’s the top doctor and a retired goalie. Best guy for the job.”
I make a mental note to follow up on this information. If I have to throw my name around to get Sabrina the best care, I’m happy to do it.
We stay to chat longer, everyone wanting to talk to Sabrina because she’s charming and kind and glowy. The air is filled with the relaxed buzz of players settling in for a few days off.
Finally, it’s time to go home.
Our family walks across the parking garage, Sabrina’s hand in mine. I open the door for her and, because everyone is watching and not because I’ve been thinking about it all day, I give her a lingering kiss on the lips.
The entire ride home, I’m dying to do it again.