Chapter 8
The Red Wheels dropped the game in St. Louis, but they played well. Nick was listed as a healthy scratch and watched from the stands. The second flight—the one to Boston—was easier. He still boarded last. It was odd seeing the city rise to meet him—it had been his home for several years, and he’d hoped to stay there for his whole career, unrealistic as that was. It was a city he loved and where he’d had good friends. Granted, most of them were now dead.
Game time was seven PM. He was at the arena hours earlier to warm up. In the visitors’ dressing room he looked up, eyes searching for the spoked “B” logo before he even realized it. The ceiling was undecorated. The room was damn cold, too. It was right by the ice and back when he’d been part of the Boston team he’d heard visiting teams bitch about it, but now he got it. He spent a little extra time stretching out to counteract the effect of the chill—and then a little longer skating to warm up. He didn’t want to get hurt his first game back. It hurt enough, just being on this ice. He knew he couldn’t glance to his right and see Sammy slap a puck at him for warm-up passing drills, but he looked anyway.
Damn it, this was hard. He skated back to the bench for water, and the locker room manager pointed—shit, he’d gone to the wrong bench. The Detroit coach saw his mistake and came by and asked, “How you feeling?”
“Great.” It was true, regarding his leg. While it would take two or three more weeks to get his conditioning fully back, he was ready to go. He might need shorter shifts for a few games, but his blades were ready to hit the ice. But it was a damn lie regarding his heart. The Boston team had cut him not just because of the crumpled leg and other more minor injuries, but because the psychological injury was severe too. He’d spent an hour in a plane filled with dead guys, waiting to see if it would catch fire and unable to drag himself out if it did. And he remembered all of it. The team had had to decide if they thought he could claw his way back—and had guessed that he couldn’t.
He was going to play incredibly well, bring the Stanley Cup to Detroit by sheer force of will—and make his old team’s management kick themselves for underestimating him, for dropping him while he was still in the hospital.
In the locker room, as the coach read the starting lineup for the night, the guys gave their right thighs two sharp smacks after each name. Their pads made the blows reverberate. It reminded Nick of an old Viking ritual—like beating on your shield. When the coach said, “Sorensen,” the guys grinned as they smacked their thighs, and several guys gave full-throated cheers. Nick ducked his head slightly, but he grinned.
They skated out onto the ice and stood at the far end, in front of their goal. The fans applauded when he came out, and he raised a hand briefly. Colored lasers shot around the arena, and the announcer introduced the visiting team—Detroit. When he said, “Nick Soooorensen!” Nick pushed off and glided out to join his teammates at center ice. The crowd erupted, leaping to their feet, stomping, clapping wildly, and cheering. Nick lifted a hand again. It went on and on, and Devin chucked him in the shoulder. The Red Wheels began to tap their sticks on the ice, a sign of solidarity, and the home team joined them. His eyes pricked at the show of support for his long, painful comeback. He turned in a circle, hand raised, and the applause grew deafening.
And then the Boston line broke as its players skated forward, not waiting for their names to be called, and embraced him, thumping his back and smacking his helmet. These men had been his teammates—until a quarter of the team died. It was a lovefest at center ice for a full minute, and he was blinking back tears, thinking of Sammy, Tyler, Eric, Luka, and Dragan, and desperately wanting not to cry in front of TV cameras. He needed to think about something else. Now.
Did he need to clean his refrigerator? No. He’d like to get a dog. But he couldn’t because of road trips, so no dog. That didn’t help. Crap, he really was going to cry. What could he think of? Vomit? Cleaning gutters? And then he imagined Alyssa standing under the half-finished arbor at that church hall, with her hair falling in soft waves. And that kiss. It distracted him, and just in time. He wasn’t crying. Thank god.
The Boston players skated back to their line, and the announcer called their names, and the fans cheered again, but not as loud or as long as they had for him. Not by a long shot. The noise and applause had been a welcome-home gift from the fans, and he appreciated it. Even though this was no longer his home and he was set on destroying their team to get back at the general manager.
It was a close game, scoreless until late in the second period, when Nick got a breakaway and skated the length of the ice, hitting a hard wrister. The puck sailed over the goalie’s glove, the goal horn sounded, and the red light flashed. Yes! He skated sharply around, blades hissing, and pumped his arm as he glided on one blade. No reason not to have a little celebration there. His teammates came over and pommeled him.
The lines changed then and he vaulted over the boards to the bench, sat, and grabbed a water bottle. Behind him the coach set a hand on his shoulder and bent to talk to him. “Nice shot. You okay with being done for the night?” He nodded, still breathing hard. He’d let his stick say what he wanted to the general manager sitting in his box high above the ice.
Detroit won the game 2–1, and they brought Nick out as the star of the game. There was another ovation. And then he showered and came out of the locker room and saw Evangeline Jorgenson. Eric’s wife. A cannonball hit his stomach. She was a beautiful woman—a tall, willowy blonde, elegant and well dressed. She reminded him of Alyssa, the decorator, with her inherent sense of style. Evangeline was holding a maybe four-month-old baby. He walked over to her, their eyes locked, and he felt the familiar sense of vertigo, of falling, falling.
“Hey,” he said, putting a hand on her upper arm. “Is this …?”
She nodded and gave a weak smile. “I thought you might like to meet him. Eric Jr.”
He crouched down and looked in the baby’s chubby face. Impossibly clear blue eyes stared back at him. His mouth was drawn up in a tiny pink bow, ready to laugh or cry. Eric Jr. clearly wasn’t sure what to make of the encounter. Nick wasn’t either. He put a hand on the baby’s head. “His hair’s so soft,” he said, and Evangeline nodded. “Are you doing okay?”
What a stupid question. Your husband died. You had your baby alone. You’re a new mother and a widow. So hey, how’s it going?
“My mom’s helping.”
“Do you need anything?” Another dumb question. Eric had been a veteran with a much better contract than Nick’s. Nick was a young star, just reaching the serious pay levels. Still.
“No. We’re good.” She blinked. “I just thought you might like to meet him.”
“Can I hold him?” She nodded and Nick reached out and took the baby in his strong hands. Eric Jr. looked up at him, and his face crumpled in slow motion and then he wailed.
“Hold him closer,” Evangeline said, and Nick nestled him against his chest.
“Your daddy loved you,” he whispered. “He was so excited about you coming.” Evangeline began to cry, but he had to tell the baby, had to make sure he knew. He put a strong arm around his friend’s widow, pulling her close, and bounced the baby against his chest with the other arm while they both cried and people walked past them in the hall, and somebody stopped to take a couple of pictures. He’d like to hip check the guy, but he couldn’t take his eyes off baby Eric. He rubbed the top of the baby’s head with his cheek. So soft.
And then Evangeline pulled back and held her arms out, and he reluctantly handed Eric Jr. back to his mother, running a finger over the back of his neck where the fat creased. “He’s beautiful,” he said, his voice husky.
She nodded. “Are you doing okay, Nick?”
“Me? Sure.” She looked at him. He swallowed. “I shouldn’t have survived.”
She squeezed his bicep. “They would have wanted you to.”
He nodded and looked away. “Yeah.”
They glanced at each other quickly, as much as they could stand, because their eyes said so much and it was a conversation neither of them could handle. Her husband was dead, and she’d give anything to have him back. Nick would trade places with him, but he couldn’t.
But I could have on the plane. There was a time when I could have traded places with him, and it would have saved his life. His baby would have had a father.
Nick leaned in and gave Evangeline a quick kiss on the cheek before they turned and walked in opposite directions down the hall. Neither looked back.