2. Matt
MATT
Nighttime in New York City after a Nighthawks win that secured our place in the playoffs? Talk about perfection.
This is the city that never sleeps, and tonight, it’s the city that chants our name. Playoffs haven’t even begun, but we’re starving for the Stanley Cup, and this year is going to be our year to raise it. We can feel it, and so can the fans.
The Penalty Box bar has a line from the front door to around the block, not unusual as of late. It used to be a lot quieter, but as word spread more and more about our team’s tradition of coming here after victorious home games, the place is constantly packed.
Darius, one of the bouncers, nods at me as I approach the entrance, ignoring the line of customers to my left. But I can still feel their eyes on me as I pass.
“Go, Nighthawks!” some guy yells over.
With my hands in my jean jacket pockets, I turn to find the guy pumping his fists in the air.
“Woo-hoo!” He points at me with the biggest smile on his face.
I wave at him with my right hand, smiling back. “Thanks, man.”
“How’s it going, Darius?” I bump his knuckles when I reach him.
He smirks. “Good, man. You?”
Grabbing the door handle, I nod in agreement. “Same here.”
We’re winning right now, for the most part at least, and that means I’m doing great.
“Glad to hear it. Have a good night,” Darius tells me.
“You too,” I tell him as I pull the door open and disappear into the noisy chaos inside.
I think the other guys are already here. I’m usually the last one to join anyway, as I’m the last one off the ice and out of the locker room. So, that would track.
The boys are in our section, one that has grown over the last couple of years since a lot of the guys have partnered up and always have a plus-one at their sides.
“There he is!” Alec Kostelecky, our captain and center on the team, welcomes me with a little wave, his wife, Laura, smiling in her chair next to him.
“Yeah, yeah.” I chuckle softly.
“About time,” Jensen Donnelley, Nighthawks defenseman, chuffs, pulling out the chair to his right.
Lainey, Jensen’s fiancée, smiles at me from the other side of Jensen. “Great game, Matt.”
“Thanks, Lainey.” I nod, my chest warming at her compliment.
She leans over Jensen to get closer to me. “How’re your hips feeling?”
That question might seem random if Lainey was just Jensen’s girl, but she is also one of the team’s physical therapists, who has been helping me with some hip flexor tightness lately. But it’s been getting better.
“Good.” I shout over the song change, the volume jumping a thousand decibels.
Offering me a thumbs-up and a grin, she leans back in her chair and turns to mingle with her friend and WAG Morgan Dove. Cam Costello, or Costy, is one of our forwards. He’s happily married to Morgan. In fact, everyone at this damn table is happily in a relationship. Alec and Laura. Cam and Morgan.
Reed, one of our defensemen, and Charlotte. Brett, a power forward for us, and Piper, Coach Hartwell’s daughter. Jensen and Lainey. Even Luca, Lainey’s brother and Jensen’s best friend, found love after he transferred in at the end of last season.
I’m the only one in our tight friend group to not find their person. Most of the time, I laugh it off, knowing that my only focus right now is my game play and my team. But sometimes, seeing how happy they are, how they have someone to lean into when everything becomes too much, I’m envious.
But I don’t have time to get caught up in relationship drama now more than ever. We just secured our place in the Stanley Cup playoffs. I can’t change a single thing about my routine and schedule because I’m not about to risk pissing off the superstitious gods for my love life.
I’ll find love in the offseason or next season. Or maybe never. Who knows? What I do know is that hockey is the most important thing in my life, and nothing is going to change that.
A drink appears in front of me, courtesy of Hannah, one of the bartenders. She’s worked here as long as I’ve been on the team and we’ve been coming here. Most of the guys don’t always get the same drink. But I sure do.
Same exact order every single time. I drink the first half in three gulps and sip on the rest. I only ever have one drink, aside from special occasions.
“Aww, Alec, did you hear them?” Laura coos, looking over at the table of rookies, mixed with some of our younger players. “They’re talking about going to Fireflies.”
Fireflies is a club in New York City that’s been booming with business the last few years. Our group has gone there a few times, and it’s always a blast. That’s where Cam and Morgan actually first met.
The bar is noisy, as always, and our table is heavily contributing to that, their convos drowning out in my ears. I listen intently, jumping between different broken-off topics. Eventually, I get bored, instead replaying game moments in my head and watching clips on my phone from social media.
This is usually how I spend my celebration after games—decompress for a few minutes, then get right back in the saddle to get better. We won tonight, but the Norsemen were still able to put three points on the board, which was more than I’d like.
Two of the shots were earned, no doubt about that. They just outworked our guys, and at some point, there’s only so much you can do about it that isn’t pure luck.
Swiping out of the highlight reel the league’s page posted, I search our team and click into the most recent post that went up only eleven minutes ago. The caption reads: Denied by Big Mac.
The video starts, and I immediately remember the play.
Eighty-Four on their team stole the puck from Cam, before breaking away down the ice toward me.
The footage I had studied of him didn’t serve me with any assistance because he didn’t shoot five-hole like he typically did nine out of ten times on breakaways.
Instead, he quick released it and tried to sneak it over my shoulder.
But I read that move as soon as he made the decision to act, maybe even before then.
I gloved it with ease, denying their go-ahead goal. The very next face-off, Alec took a shot from the blue line and Reed Larinski tipped it in, giving us the lead—four to three—saving us from going into overtime when the clock ran out only a minute later.
Liking the video, I open the comments, mentally preparing myself for any ugliness waiting for me. Pride blooms in my chest as I read the first few comments.
He’s unstoppable!
MacArthur’s going to take us all the way!
I’m a fan of the Nighthawks because of this guy.
Big Mac! Big Mac! Big Mac!
Fine, I’ll buy a Big Mac jersey.
Just got my tickets to round 1, game 1. Let’s go New York!
Thousands of comments are coming in, nearly doubling as I continue to scroll through them, my eyes consuming as many as I can, as fast as I can. I always play better when the fans are supporting me.
A heavy thought weighs in the back of my mind, and I ignore it. But that little itch grows … the irritating sensation traveling down my throat. No matter how far from my past I try to put myself, I can’t help but be reminded in moments like this.
Social media is a dangerous tool, and it lives in the hands of nearly every person, most of whom are unaware or uncaring of the consequences and the risks. But I learned firsthand how harmful the apps can be. Yet here I am, using them the same, if not more, than I did back then.
But it’s been a long time since I had to battle any suicidal thoughts, no matter how bad social media has gotten over the years.
One day, the people love me, sharing love and excitement for having me on the Nighthawks team.
Other times? They shred me to pieces, imagining there isn’t a real person on the other side.
At least, that’s what I hope it is—because if not, the comments are so much crueler.
Then there are the messages. Three types of people send messages to pro athletes. To shoot their shot romantically. To try to get free tickets or attention from a player. Or to send threats and wishing of harm.
Thankfully, the first two are the majority of what I’ve been receiving lately.
But I’m well accustomed to the wishes of harm.
What always surprises me most is that a good chunk of the commenters are people who have some kind of inclusive quote in their bio about loving everyone.
But then they slide in my messages and tell me to off myself.
A few bad comments catch my eye. I read over them with a lump in my throat.
Could have been better.
Huang’s a better goalie. Sit, Big Mac!
What happens when Big Mac’s engine runs out?
At least he’s not choking like he did last year.
You’d better not let us down, Matty!
Mentally, I make a promise to both myself and to the fans. I’m not going to let you down.
“What’re you doing over there?” Jensen, or JD, leans over, eyeing my phone cautiously.
“Just scrolling,” I answer truthfully. “But I’ll be done.”
“Good.” Jensen laughs, relaxing the tense arm at his side. “I was worried that I’d have to pry it out of your hands. Come on. At least try to relax.”
Apparently, it’s not a secret that I hyper-obsess over my game play and all things Nighthawks. But I don’t know any other way to function.
I glance around the table. Everyone is smiling and talking to their partner or the player near them, and I just feel so … isolated. It’s not their fault, and I’m happy for them. But, fuck, being surrounded by these perfect couples can be a little overwhelming.
I’m not here with someone to keep me company. Clearly, I’m also not adding anything of interest to the conversations.
I internally cringe at the pity party happening in my mind, annoyed that I’m uncomfortable sitting here at all. These are my favorite people in the entire world. They’re my home away from home. So, why am I crawling in my skin right now, desperate to be anywhere else?
Taking a deep, shaky breath in, I try to center and pull myself back from completely freaking out and leaving immediately.