Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Seadogs take game one in Seattle, but the Comets answer back the following game.
After crossing the country, the tug-of-war continues in Chicago with both teams winning once.
Through four games, the series is tied. The hockey gods crave entertainment, and so the pendulum swings back and forth.
Both of our teams remain evenly matched.
If I could have drawn up how a Comets-Seadogs playoff series would play out, this is how it would always unfold.
Eric and I are both competitive, driven by the same desire to be the brick wall both of our teams need, stopping shot after shot after shot.
Because we’re so locked in, the scores at the end of each game are low while the shots on goal are high.
I can only imagine how frustrating it must feel for the other players on the ice, denied over and over until something finally slips through.
The audience in either of our teams’ home barns has plenty of creative ways to voice their opinion about the ongoing series.
Vulgar signs, loud chants during power plays and penalty kills, and outright booing when the away team has the puck.
I even caught a Comets fan trying to “hex” Eric through the glass while he was heading back down the tunnel during an intermission.
Bad blood brews between both teams thanks to the building frustration.
Chicago and Seattle have never been rivals, but in the playoffs, my teammates make sure a rivalry will emerge after this series.
Fights break out every game as sparks fly and tempers flare.
Neither Eric nor myself directly participate.
I skate to the nearest corner to avoid the confrontation and take the time to catch my breath.
Eric, in contrast, will stay in his crease and tap his stick as if beating a war drum to support his teammates.
During the first half of the series, Eric and I send each other a text message after each game, nothing more than playful ribbing: Great game, we’ll get you in the next.
This dries up as the series becomes more intense, heightened by the lack of rest between games caused by back and forth travel.
As much as I’d love to carry on our texting conversation as if neither of our postseasons are on the line night after night, I’m too tired, crashing the moment I make it back to my apartment or the hotel.
I can only imagine Eric’s the same way, drained and needing to recharge to stay focused on the next game ahead of him.
Despite the challenge, it’s some of the most fun hockey I’ve ever played.
Every night of the series, my dreams are full of Eric: his voice, his body, his presence.
I relive the games beat for beat until they take a sharp detour.
Constant proximity, stolen glances, and more fuel than I could ever need for my fantasies thanks to our warmup routines game after game.
We may never have a chance to roll around in bed together, but I’d like to believe this is what it could be, in an abstract sense—a call and response, a challenge demanding an answer.
I’d let him fuck me, gladly taking his cock on my hands and knees or flat on my back while he smothered me into the bed, but it would be my hands buried in his hair, my nails digging into his back, my thighs cradling him in place, my body making him surrender to me.
When I wake up the morning after one of those intense dreams, I revel in the thought that I’ll be seeing Eric later that day.
We’re in the same city, the same timezone.
If I wanted to talk to him, it wouldn’t have to be through a text message.
He’s tangible, physical. He’s there, just across the ice, and the scoreboard at the end of each game speaks volumes.
I can keep pace with Eric. I can push him to be his best self.
I could be everything he needs and more: a worthy competitor. I just needed the chance.
I wish the series would never end.
The final buzzer drones throughout Chicago’s arena, signaling the end of the game and the end of the series against Seattle. My teammates clamor together with cheers which rival the audience, the whole barn shaking with excitement.
Chicago’s going to the Western Conference Final. If we can overcome one more hurdle, then we'll be playing for a chance to win the Stanley Cup.
Cameramen from the TV broadcasts and local media descend onto the ice to capture every moment of the action.
My team lines up to thank me for my performance, and one at a time, they press their helmets to mine with a gentle bonk or a pat on the head.
Taking in this victory is both an out-of-body experience and something so visceral, something I need to imprint to memory with as much detail as possible.
Both teams meet at center ice for the handshake line.
Players exchange a handshake and murmur good game or more if it’s between old friends or newfound rivals.
There’s no rush. For one team, it’s the end of a long season; for another, it’s another checkmark on the list of challenges leading to the Stanley Cup.
Braydan, the team captain for the Seadogs, takes my hand with a solemn smile.
He congratulates me on the victory and wishes me luck in the next series with a pat on my shoulder—short and gracious in the face of a disappointing result for his team.
Two more players worth of pleasantries later, and then it’s time to face Eric.
Everything happens in slow motion. The arena full of roaring fans, the chill of the ice, the flash of cameras around us—everything fades away, turning into distant static, taking on the qualities of a dream.
Our eyes meet as we skate to one another.
There’s a small smile beneath his helmet, and my heart skips, stutters, short-circuits.
He pulls me close for a tight hug. Our helmets press together, the cages the only barriers keeping us apart.
This is as close to a kiss as Eric and I will ever be.
“You did great, James,” he whispers, the softly spoken praise sending shivers down my spine. “Go win it all for us.”
“I will,” I promise with all my heart.
And right as I start to settle into his embrace, right as I surrender myself to this joy, it’s already time to move on. We both lean away and step apart, putting distance between us again. Eric skates on to the next person in the handshake line, and I do the same.
Nothing lasts forever.
With the rest of the lineup, I’m a polite, professional athlete.
Yet the urge to glance over my shoulder and spare one final glimpse at Eric tempts me.
No matter how badly I want to succumb, I shouldn’t; I have to believe I’ll see him again, sooner than our next regular season game.
I have to trust our friendship and closeness will overcome physical distance and now a playoff loss.
Hours after the end of game seven, the happiness of winning has faded. The same questions keep running through my mind as I lie in bed that night: Will this loss drive a wedge into my relationship with Eric? Will our relationship ever be the same again?
I can’t fall asleep, so I drag myself to my kitchen to make a bowl of cereal.
Seated at the table, I scroll through my social media feeds and come across countless posts from disappointed Seadogs fans.
People aren’t mad at the Seadogs players over the loss; they’re mad at the Comets.
Especially me. Complaint after complaint, scroll after scroll, and my concerns over Eric only worsen.
Even though I’m exhausted from the game, the entire playoffs so far, I’m a glutton for punishment in the lonely hours of the night.
I keep scrolling even though every rational voice in my head warns me I shouldn’t.
To my surprise, not all of the posts from Seadogs fans are full of fire and fury.
There’s countless posts lamenting the end of the series, a sentiment I share.
Some fans claim the Comets-Seadogs series was the best so far this playoff season.
Post-game clips from both teams have already started to circulate.
Articles from Seattle sports media speculate on what this series loss means for the Seadogs going forward while Chicago media ponders what this win means for the Comets.
A new notification pops up within the app while I browse. I swipe over to check and discover a fan’s tagged me in a picture of Eric and I from game one of the series.
A glimpse of greatness.
#CometsvsSeadogs @EricSinclair @JamesHarrison
The first picture in the post is from game one.
The person who took this picture zoomed in on Eric and I at the red line, with Eric leaning over it to whisper something to me.
From the angle, we appear to be closer than we really were.
We look like we’re in the middle of an intimate conversation at center ice, which, granted, was true.
And just remember, James, Eric had murmured, you’re a talented, extraordinary goalie who isn’t ruled by his fears.
I’ll never forget those words. I’ll never forget how incredible it was to be so close to Eric, to be the sole focus of his attention for a few precious moments.
I swipe to the next picture which is from tonight’s game, taken sometime after the handshake line.
Eric’s alone, his head craned up to the final scoreboard which sealed the Seadogs’ fate.
But where’s his signature smile? Where’s the joy in his eyes?
I’ve never seen Eric like this. I’ve never seen him in the throes of defeat, wondering where everything went wrong.
There’s nothing to smile about after a loss.
All that work, all that effort, all that hope for another win with the teammates he loves, amounting to nothing.
I stare down at my phone, my half-eaten cereal forgotten. I’m the one who did this to him. I’m the one who sent the Seadogs packing.
By now, Eric’s probably on a plane headed back to Seattle. His team will wrap up with final interviews and other end-of-season duties, and then he’ll be on his way home to return to everyday life for the summer.
I wish I could text him, I wish we could go back to the way our relationship was before the playoffs, but I can’t, shouldn’t.
It’s too soon. He’s probably receiving a swarm of texts from other people anyways.
He wouldn’t want to hear from me, the competitor who ended his season, and I wouldn’t blame him for it.
It just sucks.
I save both pictures without another thought, shameless, and then bury my head into my folded arms, wishing for sleep.