Chapter 1 #3
One by one, each of the remaining goalies and players are matched against each other until, at last, the remaining player from Team Callahan steps up for his turn.
His eyes meet mine before the announcer even asks who he wants to go against. There’s unexpected warmth mixed with the same competitive drive we all feel at the end of the day in this business.
I remember his name from the earlier introductions: Gareth Galloway, a winger for the San Diego Starbirds.
“Gareth, since you can’t go against your own team’s remaining goalie, looks like you’re limited on your choices. Who do you want to go up against?”
“I’ll take on James Harrison.”
The announcer grins, pleased with this turn of events. “Redemption, maybe, for Team Callahan?”
“We’ll see,” Galloway answers with an awkward shrug.
Before I have a chance to pull on my helmet, Eric taps my stick and leans close. “Good luck.”
Well, now I can’t let my team or Eric down, not after his brilliant performance and wishing me the best.
My gloved fingers brush against the back plate of my helmet where there’s a drawing of a goaltender wearing a red jersey.
They’re defending their own crease, glove poised to catch rogue pucks, hand gripping their stick tight.
People who don’t know me believe this must be a tribute to some great goaltender from the past. If they’re huge women’s NCAA hockey fans, then they’ll recognize it’s my mother, Jane Harrison.
Even if she can no longer be in the stands to cheer me on, she’ll always be with me on the ice.
I pull on my helmet and suck in a deep breath as if I’m a diver about to take a plunge. In some ways, goaltending and deep-sea diving are similar. You would have to be crazy to put yourself willingly under so much pressure.
I hope Eric’s eyes follow me as I skate to the crease, but I can’t focus on him.
I have to empty my mind, letting go of him and everyone else in the arena except for Galloway.
There can be no room for distractions. While the organizers arrange a set of pucks for Galloway, I do a quick round of stretches to warm up after standing still for so long.
I skate to each part of the crease, practicing the act of catching and stopping pucks from different angles as I do before every game as a routine.
The Comets have met the Starbirds already this season, so I’m familiar with their style of play.
Since their rebrand and the start of their rebuild, the Starbirds have slowly improved, especially with their offense.
When both Galloway and I are ready for the contest to begin, our eyes meet once more across the ice.
There’s familiar determination blazing in his crystal blue eyes, a look I’ve seen thousands of times on players like him: a hunger to score.
Galloway gives little else away, his features stoic compared to his teammate Wes Harper.
A timer in the corner of my eye counts down from five, and then the referee blows his whistle, starting the contest.
Galloway takes off, grabbing one of the pucks and skating in at an angle towards me.
He tries to be unpredictable with his movements, but I kick away his first low shot attempt at the corner of the net.
Galloway retrieves another puck, but this shot is denied with a poke check from my stick.
The third shot bounces off my chest, and I catch it before it falls to the ice.
I toss it out of the way and get ready for the next.
A glimmer of silver around his neck catches my eye as he goes for another puck.
A minute’s forever when you’re facing down what amounts to a series of staged breakaways, and Galloway is patient, unlike Harper.
There’s nothing flashy about Galloway’s puck handling, especially compared to many of the other players showcased today who hoped to make a statement.
My eyes follow Galloway, taking in his posture and the position of his hands on the stick in an effort to find a sign which will give away when, where, and how he’ll shoot next.
I come out further to the edge of the crease, ready to meet him, but Galloway stops short and performs a move I wasn’t expecting.
Instead of shooting with his dominant hand, he cuts back, skating around me, but I’ve already committed.
It’s too late. I fall onto my front and a loud, resounding Thunk!
causes me to curse under my breath. A light goes off in my periphery, indicating Galloway has scored.
I push off the ice and quickly stand to get back into position.
Galloway already has the next puck, and he’s barreling toward me at full speed.
This will be his final shot attempt as the timer counts down.
I follow his stick, the puck, his movements, so certain I’ve guessed right.
He slaps the puck and it flies in the air, heading straight for where I’ve raised my glove.
I’m certain I’ve tracked it, but to my dismay, my hand’s too low.
The puck brushes over the top of my glove, rolls over it, and falls straight down, dropping fully over the red line and earning Galloway another goal.
The buzzer rings out, ending the challenge. The audience goes wild, but I’m not certain if the excitement’s for me or for Galloway. I skate back to the line, surprised to find Eric smiling and applauding along with the rest of the crowd.
“I’m sure glad you’re on my team,” he says once I’m beside him again. “I think we’re winning this event no problem.”
When Team Sinclair’s victory is announced, Eric turns to me and throws an arm around my shoulder, pulling me in for a half-hug that’s awkward thanks to our gear.
Our two other teammates skate over and give us both fist bumps, sharing the celebration.
With the final event of the day over, we all skate off the ice together, heading down the tunnel.
Inside the dressing room, it’s a frenzy as all players start peeling off their gear.
Goalies have it harder than regular players since we wear several layers of extra protection.
We’re still expected to be able to dress in and out of our gear in a timely manner.
It all comes down to routine, something which doesn’t require much thought after years of being a goalie and doing this before and after every game.
This gear is the difference between being littered with bruises and being unharmed after standing in the net all night.
If you treat your equipment right with the reverence it deserves, it will take care of you.
Eric and I have stalls right next to each other in the dressing room.
It’s hard not to watch him remove his gear instead of focusing solely on my own.
When I sit down at the bench and reach for my left legpad, I’m stopped short by the sight of Eric’s abs peeking out from the bottom hem of his black undershirt.
My breath catches in my throat, my heart stills.
Oh God, I’m about to see Eric without his shirt on… and what if… what if I’m about to see even more? What if he’s the type of guy who’ll walk to the showers naked? What am I going to do if he is? I can’t stare, but there’s no way I’ll be able to look away if everything comes off.
Yet before I can have the pleasure of finding out what kind of man Eric is around a dressing room, my phone starts ringing from somewhere inside my bag.
I fish for it in a hurry to discover it’s my dad calling.
A potent mixture of dread and appreciation stews within my stomach.
My hesitation causes the call to end before I have a chance to answer.
I squeeze my phone and sigh. I should’ve just answered him.
“Everything alright?” Eric asks.
“Yeah,” I say with a half-hearted smile. “Just my dad.”
“Hey, I get it. I don’t answer personal calls around a ton of people either.”
I don’t know how to explain what’s going on between my dad and I since mom died last year.
Our relationship isn’t horrible. Far from it.
But it’s… awkward. Painfully awkward. We keep in touch, but our conversations are full of starts and stops, never really diving into anything going on in either of our lives beyond the surface level.
On paper, everything’s fine. I’m sure most people would love to have a dad who cares enough to call, but my dad’s just going through the motions of being interested in hockey and my career.
It’s parental obligation, not actual love or enthusiasm for the sport, something mom had in spades.
He’s trying his best to bridge a gap he’ll never be able to bridge.
It’s not as though I don’t appreciate the effort, but all it achieves is reminding me of what’s gone and never coming back.
“I guess I should call him back.”
“He’s probably just congratulating you on your great performance tonight.”
Well, I’m not about to debate a half-naked Eric. Maybe he’s right.
Still dressed in my goalie gear from the waist down, I leave the busy dressing room to call my father. I find a quiet area of the arena’s interior and lean against the wall. Thankfully, he answers on the first ring. I haven’t missed him.
“Hey, dad. Sorry I missed your call.”
“Oh, James, it’s fine,” my dad says. “I understand. I wasn’t sure if they would have you doing an interview or if you would be in the locker room.”
It’s a dressing room. He’s been corrected over this countless times by both my mom and myself over the years, but he never remembers the difference.
Mom always said it was because his brain needed to make room to memorize Shakespeare’s sonnets by heart.
Number eighteen was the only way she could ever forgive him for forgetting hockey lingo.
“I watched the event. I can see why you’ve always been so obsessed with Mr. Sinclair!”
I can’t tell what’s more mortifying—my father calling Eric “Mr. Sinclair” like he’s one of my old school teachers, the reminder my dad’s the only other person beside mom to have seen my Eric Sinclair collection in person, or the fact he’s using the verb obsessed to describe my appreciation of Eric.
The only reason he knows anything about said collection is because he helped me move into my Chicago apartment years ago.
“You did outstanding too, by the way. Mr. Sinclair has a great teammate.”
My dad doesn’t understand enough about goaltending to appreciate the nuances between Eric’s skillset and my own, but I appreciate the compliment nonetheless.
“I just wanted to say I’m so proud of you, James, and your mom… well, she would have been too. You always enjoyed the All-Star Game together. I know how much this means to you, how hard you’ve worked to get here.”
The sudden sharp turn in our conversation makes my throat seize up. Voices from down the hallway cause me to shift away from them, lest someone catch me with a warbling upper lip.
“Thanks,” I mumble, unable to say more.
Brushing too close to a sensitive subject, my dad deflects, knowing better than to unpack those particular emotions. “So… What else are you getting up to tonight?”
I was going to ask “Mr. Sinclair” out for drinks, actually, to celebrate our victory, but I’m not about to admit that to my dad for too many reasons to count.
“I’m probably going to just head back to my hotel and get some rest,” I say instead.
“Are your teammates doing something special?”
“Maybe?” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You should try and get to know them. It’s good for you to make friends in the league. You never know who you’ll be playing alongside one day.”
“I guess,” I dismiss. As if my dad actually understands the complexities of the trades and roster juggling these franchises do.
A long pause emerges. I wish my dad would wrap up and put this call out of its misery.
“I hope you’re not stressing over those two goals from earlier. You blocked way more shots than those other goalies!”
If there’s only one thing my dad and I notoriously have in common, it’s the fact we’re overthinkers who stress out over everything. Mom tried to impart mindfulness on the both of us over the years, but I’m not sure it stuck.
“I should’ve stopped all of them. It’s my job.”
“You can’t stop everything.”
I sigh and pinch my brows. If I’m not about to debate with Eric, I’m certainly not about to argue the point with my dad. He doesn’t know the first thing about shootouts because he’s never been in the net. He’s never willingly played a team sport.
When I say nothing further, my dad clears his throat on the other end of the call.
“Well… I’ll be watching the games tomorrow. I can’t believe they might make you guys play two games back to back!” He laughs sheepishly. “Make sure to drink lots of water.”
“They’re truncated games, dad. Two ten minute periods instead of three twenty minute ones. Besides, Eric and I will take turns in the net.”
“Well hey! First name basis, huh?”
My cheeks burn as I scoff. “I think calling him ‘Mr. Sinclair’ would come across as an insult. We’re not that far apart in age.”
“I guess you’re right,” he says softly. “Well, I’m glad you’ve made a friend regardless. You should tell him about your collection. Maybe he’ll sign something for you!”
Oh my God, please stop, dad. Absolutely not. There’s no way I’d ever admit to Eric I have a large collection of hockey memorabilia highlighting his professional goaltending career.
“Look, dad,” I frown. “I… I really gotta go. I appreciate you calling.”
“Of course. I’ll call you tomorrow after your game. Good luck. I love you, James.”
I hold my phone against my ear. The problems between him and I aren’t solely his fault.
I know he cares. I know he genuinely loves me and he’s proud, but there’s an elephant listening in on the line.
We both know if mom were alive, it wouldn’t be my dad making this call.
I’m not even sure he’d watch the games in their entirety.
My dad’s trying his best, but it’s not the same. We both know it, deep down.
“Okay. Love you too.”
There’s another long, awkward pause. I can almost hear the words perched on the tip of his tongue—talking about it.
Addressing the mess of feelings we’re both experiencing and refusing to process together.
With everyone else, my dad’s well-spoken, unafraid to share his long-winded thoughts on whatever has currently captured his attention—probably some undiscovered poet and their works.
He’s a sentimental man, a softie at heart, but there are some bridges too far, and our shared grief continues to be one of them.
“Alright, well… Talk to you later, dad.”
Before my dad can say anything further, I end the call. The pain between us is too much. I head back to the dressing room, taking the walk to put my family problems as far out of my mind as possible.