Chapter 25 Skylar
TWENTY-FIVE
SKYLAR
Making it to the playoffs in his first year in the NHL was exactly how Skylar imagined his first season going. He’d love to make it all the way and win the Cup right off the bat, but while hockey was unpredictable, it wasn’t that unpredictable. He wasn’t holding his breath.
The intensity of post-season hockey felt right to him. He took hockey this seriously the entire season, and now it felt like hockey was taking him seriously in return.
The flights to in-season games were casual. Some guys played cards. There was a contingent of Mario Kart enthusiasts, and some guys who all watched the same movie on their laptops at the same time.
Now, heading out to Colorado for Game 1 of Round 1, the plane was silent.
In the past week, Skylar had seen a brand-new version of Jackson.
It was like he’d undergone a Pokémon evolution from the smiley guy who always emphasized how it was important to have fun when they were out on the ice, to someone who used phrases like “we need to crush our enemies” and “let’s annihilate them. ”
Skylar had a movie up on his iPad while dicking around on his phone.
Walker was next to him, bouncing his knee.
Usually, when confronted with someone doing something annoying, he would tell them to cut it out.
Now, instead of letting his annoyance eclipse him, he took a breath. This was not a big deal.
His therapist told him to take tiny moments in his life that were upsetting or annoying and practice calming his nervous system.
“Hey, man. How’d it go with Tanner?” Skylar had been wondering and had already asked Grace if she knew any gossip. Unfortunately, she did not.
“Uh, it didn’t go anywhere. I didn’t call him. Not the right time. Not the right place.”
“That’s too bad. No rush though.”
“Yeah, I figure I’m going to let life happen how it happens. How’s therapy going?” Walker asked him. He deserved that one. If Skylar got to ask invasive questions, so did Walker. If anyone else had asked, he would have made a joke or told them to fuck off, but Walker got it.
“Good. Can’t say I’m feeling calm exactly, but I know how to lift weights and eat right. This is just another way to make myself the ultimate hockey weapon.”
Walker laughed. He was installed in Jackson and Ryan’s other guest room, and Skylar was proud of the friendship they were developing.
His friendship with Beck had been born from sniping at each other, constant bickering, and challenging each other.
Brandon was alarmingly easygoing, with few annoying traits.
He didn’t put up with Skylar’s bullshit, but he also didn’t take the time to challenge it.
Walker called him on his shit. Pointed it out. Expected him to get better.
“Stay cool on the ice and no one is going to have a problem.” The words alone might have sounded like a threat, but Walker delivered them in such an encouraging way.
It was the first playoff game for a number of the guys on the team.
The Northern Lights hadn’t clinched a playoff spot in the last couple of years.
They were showered in an avalanche of Stanley Cup Playoffs–specific apparel, and the vets who knew what was going on helped guide the younger players through the differences between in-season and post-season hockey.
The energy he had when they landed—a full day before their game, so they could adjust to the altitude as best they could—was only partly due to excitement.
Team dinner was a bit more of an ordeal than normal, complete with a handful of pep talks that felt like the string of speeches you had to sit through at a wedding, but spirits were high.
By the time they got back to the hotel, all Skylar was feeling was excitement.
Adam didn’t want to distract Skylar too much before the first game, so he only sent Skylar one text wishing him safe travels but had been quiet otherwise.
It was more distracting not to have a handful of the random texts Adam sent him throughout the day, letting him know in so many ways that he was thinking about him.
At least he answered the phone when Skylar called.
“I hope you’re drinking a lot of water,” Adam said before anything else.
“I miss you too,” he said sarcastically.
“You know we’re having every breath we take micromanaged here.
We’re all fine.” Before Skylar had left, Adam had shared that the one time he’d been to Colorado he’d gotten altitude sickness, so he was anxious about it.
“They’re not sending millions of dollars’ worth of athletes out here without making sure we can play our best.”
“I miss you so much,” Adam said, getting to the part of the conversation Skylar actually wanted to have.
“Any news on your potential buyer?” Adam and Grace finally got a nibble. Not quite a bite.
“They don’t want it,” Adam said, sounding defeated. Skylar wished he could have brought Adam with him. He had this big bed, perfect for cuddling sad boyfriends, and for what?
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“I was going to wait until after your game to tell you.”
“I’ll play hard to spite your non-buyers.”
Adam laughed. “That would probably work for you.”
“You know me,” Skylar said, the warmth and truth of that statement washing over him. Adam did know him. There was comfort there that Skylar hadn’t expected. He liked it.
“I do,” Adam agreed.
Skylar kept him on the phone for as long as he could before Adam had to go.
Tanner had found a new job, which Adam was happy about.
But it meant Adam was working more than ever, and working a lot of closing shifts, which he was not built for.
He still had a couple of hours left in his shift for that night before he woke up and did it all again. Skylar could use the sleep as well.
Skylar had strategies now for when things pissed him off. In a normal game, he wasn’t a hair trigger away from losing his cool at any moment. Even though he had a bit of a reputation for being a hothead—one that commentators brought up at any opportunity—it took a lot to get him to blow up.
Game 1 was high energy, scrappy, and intense.
Physical. Skylar had gotten checked into the boards more than once, an elbow catching him in the ear in the first period that he didn’t even draw a penalty off of.
The refs were still calibrating how they were going to call the series, and it was clear that both teams were getting away with more than they could in the regular season.
He had a lifetime of his brain automatically focusing down to the pinhole of hockey, with no other thoughts penetrating.
Every time he hit the bench, he had to remind himself to find his focus.
Breathe deep in a meaningful way, and not just because he was gasping to fill his lungs after a long shift.
Here and there, he found himself enough to cool down.
In the third, down by two, a Colorado forward covertly tripped him. Another penalty going uncalled. Some analyst after the game would try to convince everyone that it was “fair” because both teams were taking liberties, but it was the kind of refereeing that bred fights.
No use crying about it. He got back onto his skates.
The play had been called down after their goalie froze the puck, and Skylar knew that in a normal game, he’d go after the player who’d tripped him and was giving him an annoying little smirk.
But then he thought about Adam—about the prospective buyers who decided they didn’t want Heathens—and played out of spite.
Brandon won the face-off and Skylar caught the puck, taking it back behind the goal to buy his guys some time to get into position.
He passed it up to Riker, who made it out of their D-zone and through the neutral zone, passing to Brandon, who dodged out of the way of the defender trying to cover him.
In an instant, the puck was in the back of the net, and Skylar had barely made it out of their D-zone.
He was already rushing into the attack zone, ready to continue play if Brandon’s shot missed, and he took his momentum straight to his teammates for a group hug. They were within one. There were five minutes left on the clock. Plenty of time.
The last five minutes of a playoff game with a one-goal deficit weren’t where fourth liners and third D-pairs would get much time, but Skylar spent his time on the bench breathing deep as he watched the seconds count down.
They’d pulled Gus to add an extra attacker, and with nineteen seconds left, Jackson let a shot rip toward the goal.
The goalie had been all the way on the other side of the paint, and Skylar was sure it was a good goal.
He was already mentally preparing himself for a potential fourth full period of hockey ahead of them.
And then the Range’s goalie’s glove shot out of nowhere, grabbing the puck clean out of the air.
“Fuck,” Skylar heard his coach yell, a sentiment echoed up and down the bench.
The guys who were already out stayed on the ice for the last few seconds, never giving up. The buzzer came anyway, signaling the end of Game 1. Skylar’s first playoff loss.
He felt the scream in his throat. Energy raced through his body that had nowhere to go. The instinct to break his stick over his knee was the first place his head went.
He could lose the game and lose his cool, or he could lose the game and keep something important. Build something.
He followed Novikov down the tunnel back to the locker room and tried to focus his anger into tossing his jersey in the laundry bin with vitriol.
It didn’t quite scratch the itch, but it was better than nothing.
He did a few hops in his skates in front of his stall before taking a seat.
The boys were beat, in more ways than one.
They absorbed a speech from Coach DeVries, then finished taking their gear off. Skylar went through the motions of his post-game routine: Cool down. Shower. Put his suit back on.
They were staying in Colorado for Game 2, and while they lost Game 1, Skylar knew he had contributed everything he could. He’d give even more the next game.