Chapter Seven The Pennsylvania Tournament
“Nervous? Who’s nervous?” Nick mumbled to himself as he arranged and rearranged the toiletries in the bathroom.
As planned, he’d arrived in Middle-of-Nowhere, PA (dubbed not-so-fondly by Brady) super late on Friday and checked into the hotel on Brady’s behalf.
The room had two double beds, which only disappointed Nick for a second.
It was reasonable, not presumptuous, and didn’t put Nick in an awkward position if Brady was not hinting at a hookup.
He’d taken the bed by the door, just because, and then proceeded to not sleep more than a few hours. A lot of the night was spent watching crappy movies and texting his cousins for emotional support.
Their “support” consisted primarily of warnings to have condoms handy and to not get too sweaty during the tournament because “no one likes making out with hockey-gear smell permeating the air.”
Basically useless.
By the time 7:00 a.m. rolled around—an hour before check-in at the rink and more than that before the first game—he was puttering around the room, stalling.
Was Brady going to stop by here first? Would he show up at the rink? Who else was already in town?
“Fuck,” he sighed. “I need coffee.”
The quest for caffeine distracted him. He took in every sight and smell in the podunk town, hoping to tease Brady about it later. Aaand then he was thinking about Brady again, which only brought back his nervous jitters.
There were a bunch of people crowded in the back lot of the rink. Nick only recognized Benns’s and GG’s cars, and he soon saw them milling about with the other people who were dicking around with balls and pucks while they waited for the rink to open.
“You bring enough for the whole team?” GG nodded toward the coffee when he saw Nick approach.
“All three of us? Sadly, no.”
“It’s still early,” Benns said. “They haven’t even let us officially sign in yet. Wouldn’t hurt to warm up out here with the other teams, get a sneak peek at the competition.”
“It’s cold as balls,” GG muttered under his breath. “I’d rather stay in my car with the heat blasting.”
Nick didn’t disagree about the cold. It wasn’t snowing, which he supposed was a blessing, but it was probably warmer on the actual ice rink than it was out here.
He was tempted to follow GG’s lead, but the real issue was that sitting in his car meant thinking.
Thinking meant stressing out. Stressing out meant he’d play poorly and make a fool of himself (both on and off the ice).
Guess I’m playing around and scouting out the competition…
Nick was midway through a shootout practice with a ten-year-old and a seven-year-old who were there with their dad when a black Jeep pulled into the lot.
Nick was purposefully helping the seven-year-old beat her older brother, not even trying to stop her shots but coming out and poke-checking the older kid each time (with mixed results…
he really needed to be more appreciative of the work Guy did in net) when Brady walked up.
Gear bag slung over one shoulder, customary joggers and hoodie on (no hat, though, hmm), Brady pulled out a stick.
“You know we’re here for an ice-hockey tournament, right?” Brady motioned for the kid to pass him a ball. “Shouldn’t you be using a puck?”
“Pucks don’t move right on the ground,” the ten-year-old said sagely.
“You are absolutely right,” Brady agreed and started to stick handle. “I hope this doesn’t mean you’re taking over for Guy. Traffic wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“Every goalie’s gotta start somewhere,” Nick said as he got into position. “Don’t aim for the face, yeah?”
Nick squared up “in goal.” It was really just his hockey bag and a trash can, more like a football goal post than an actual net, but it did the job. He also didn’t have anything but his regular gear, making any attempt at a real save difficult if not dangerous.
Not that he had faced a real shot yet; despite how good the ten-year-old was, it was nothing compared to what he usually saw in games.
Brady bounced the ball on the blade of his stick like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Half the reason Nick had agreed to play goalie was he couldn’t get the ball to cooperate the way he could with a puck, and here was Brady, acting like there was no noticeable difference and he was an expert at both sports.
Show off.
“No promises,” Brady said, and then proceeded to whack it out of midair toward Nick.
Nick hit it away with his glove, a failed attempt at actually catching it. Still a save, though.
“Whoo!” cheered the little girl.
“How’d you hit that?!” the little boy demanded of Brady.
“You should quit now if you can’t score on me!” Nick added with a wide grin.
“Oh, I’ll score on you. Make no mistake.” And then, to Nick’s profound shock and utter delight, Brady winked at him.
After Brady scored five in a row on him, Nick would claim it was that wink and not Brady’s skill that did him in.
*
“All right, huddle up.”
They were all sweaty, exhausted, and ready to punch someone at the slightest provocation.
As a team, they’d played really late games, really early games, and the occasional doubleheader.
They’d never had to play five competitive games in a single day.
The Jagr Bombs were dog tired, and Nick was no exception.
Even Brady, Mr. Played-Hockey-in-School, was affected.
Granted, he looked like he’d maybe played two tough games instead of five.
His hair, however, was noticeably more disheveled than usual (was that why he usually had a hat?
Because fuuuck did Nick want to run his hands through it), and he had the same scent of sweat and unwashed gear lingering on him that the rest of them did.
And yet… he smiled more than usual. Nothing too over the top, no wide, gummy grins or full-belly laughs, but there was a spark there that was frequently lit. He crowded into Nick’s space every chance he got, whispering about the game or the competition, giving advice or asking how he was doing.
“I’m fine,” Nick said for the umpteenth time. “Quit asking. You’re giving me a complex.”
Brady laughed and bumped his shoulder. “I’m Alternate Captain, I gotta check in with my boys during a tourney.”
“So you’re checking on everyone else every time they’re on the bench?” Nick challenged.
Brady put his hand over his eyes and did an exaggerated look around the rink. “Seems like they’re fine. Besides, they’re not my roommate.” He paused, giving Nick an appreciative look. “You get a little extra.”
Nick scrambled onto the ice to escape; it was either that or spontaneously combust from how hard he was blushing.
Brady’s good humor wasn’t solely aimed at Nick; when Brady saw someone watching them, he’d happily redirect his energy their way.
“That was a pretty sick move on the breakout,” he said to Young Greg as he pulled him in by the jersey between face-offs. “Try to stick a little more to center ice, though. They’re gonna try to get you to the boards anyway, so don’t go there on your own.”
Young Greg nodded fervently, beaming at the praise. When he scored a goal the next shift after following Brady’s advice, he and Brady did a chest bump on the ice in celebration.
This was more like Drunk Brady than Hockey Brady. Drunker than Drunk Brady, really, since there was still quiet reservation when he drank. Drunk Brady was rosy cheeks and grins he gave out freely. This was something else, this youthful exuberance, these easy laughs.
Nick wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
“He must really like tournaments,” Lexi had said in awe when Brady had not only scored on the Power Play but tackled the rest of his line in celebration in place of his customary fist bumps at the bench.
Nick watched and hoped; in those moments when Brady was his regular self or closed off, there were doubts.
When a teammate would see how closely they were sitting on the bench or raised an eyebrow at their whispering back and forth, Brady would stumble over his words and subtly put the space back between them.
It was like a seesaw, up and down, hot and cold, and Nick didn’t know where things would land at the end of the day.
He also didn’t know how much of Brady’s enthusiasm was the tournament and how much was their shared room, and that blank space in their schedules between tonight and tomorrow morning.
“So,” Benns said in his “captain voice” once he had everyone gathered on the ice.
Nick hadn’t even known his captain voice wasn’t his regular voice until he’d been on the team long enough to hear him bitch about the Caps and talk gently to his wife and daughters over the phone in the corner of the locker room.
“We’ve already secured ourselves the fifth seed going into tomorrow’s playoffs.
We have another game, but it doesn’t hurt or help us.
It can hurt or help the other team, though, so they’ll be playing hard. ”
“You saying we throw the game?” Gail said hopefully. “I could work on my soccer dives and embellishments.”
“I would never say throw a game,” Benns scolded.
“I want you to know what the situation is. If you want to take it easy or try some things that you normally wouldn’t, I would encourage that.
Don’t get drawn into fights with them unnecessarily and don’t do anything risky that might hurt you and make it harder to play when it counts tomorrow. ”
“So I should totally play in net,” Young Greg said. “Always wanted to try out goalie.”
Guy handed him his stick and started taking off his goalie mitt to hand to him; Donno wordlessly took the stick and handed it back to Guy.
Benns ignored all three of them.
“Any game, even a pick-up game, gives us an opportunity to practice and improve. This one frees us of needing to put a million goals on the board and keep one hundred percent of goals out of the back of the net. Did anyone notice some strategies other teams used and have suggestions on things to work on to counteract them?”