Epilogue
CORBIN - THE FOLLOWING WEEK
The Dallas Rattlers arena is brand spanking new. Top-notch locker rooms, VIP suites, and the largest arena in the league. I pass John Basilio as we finish our pregame warmups walking toward the locker room. We exchange a friendly pat on the back, but when the game starts, we’re rivals.
Sitting on the cushioned bench, I have my phone on because Jasper is playing in the high school championship today. Since game one and two will be played in Dallas, the family is watching on television and will come into Nashville for games three and four. Adam says, “Don’t worry, Jasper’s team will win easily.”
“You haven't seen the other teams,” I scoff but love that Adam has confidence.
“I’ve seen your brother. Hell, he was faster and more skilled than Dousier and some of the others on the team. He’ll win it.”
As I’m taping my stick, I answer, “I hope so, then maybe he can do two years of college and get drafted to play with us.”
“It’s possible. He’s a phenom.”
The typical chatter in the locker room dies down as the minutes tick down, and it’s almost game time. I listen to my playlist that Oakley makes for me each week. If we lose, she ditches all the songs on the list and starts over with songs that have been winners. My life is good.
The phone rings into my ears, but it’s not Jasper; it’s my dad. He always messages me to wish me luck but never calls because he doesn’t want to throw me off my game. I answer with a smile, knowing it’s his voice on the other end even before I pick up.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, trying to conceal the excitement and a hint of nerves that linger just beneath the surface.
“Hey, champ.” His deep voice crackles slightly over the connection. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be watching. Jasper’s team is tied 1-1. Give it your all out there, okay?”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I will. Thanks, Dad.”
As we hang up, something is shifting, and I don’t know if it’s pre-game jitters or something unknown wracking my body. I finish taping my stick, the rhythmic motion calms me, and glance around the locker room, but the air is heavy and everything feels wrong.
After the pomp and circumstance of the pre-game, the buzzer sounds, and the first-round playoff begins. Despite the adrenaline coursing through me, I can’t quite shake the feeling left by my dad's call. It’s strange; his voice, lingers in my mind like a distant echo.
On the ice, the Dallas Rattlers come out swinging like boxers trying for a knockout–being aggressive as I’ve ever seen. We scramble to regain our footing, but it's like we’re a step behind. I see their forward barreling down the ice, our defense caught out of position with a brisk pass to Basilio. In a blur, Basilio hits a wrist shot, and the puck slides under Adam’s leg before we know it. The red light flashes mockingly, and a deafening cheer erupts from the Rattlers’ fans.
As captain, I gather my team and give them a pep talk. “We’re the Nashville Notes. Communicate on the ice. Pass, pass, pass until they have no idea which way to skate. Let’s do this.”
“One, two, three, Notes,” we yell in unison.
I refocus, shaking off the uneasiness traveling through my veins. Something is wrong. With the puck in our possession, Baker and I weave through their defense like it's a choreographed routine, graceful and powerful at the same time. I see the opening. Baker sends the puck my way with sniper-like precision, and I don't have time to think, just react. Relying on twenty years of playing hockey and the muscle memory that comes along with training hours a day, I send it soaring, splitting the air in half.
There’s that heart-stopping moment where time stands still, where I’m willing the puck to stay on the right trajectory to be on target. Suddenly, we’re back in real time, and the puck sinks past the Rattlers’ goalie, slamming into the net with a satisfying swoosh.
I score again at the beginning of the third period and soon, the rush of relief and triumph is dizzying, drowning out everything else. We rally together, and by the final buzzer, we win game one. The apprehension fades, replaced by the pure, exhilarating joy of playoff glory.
But when I look into the stands, Oakley isn’t doing the “Oakley winner dance.” She has her hands over her nose and mouth. Is she overcome with emotion over the win? I’ve never seen this expression at a game, let alone a playoff game. I motion for her to come to the glass.
“Is everything okay?” I realize Becca isn’t beside her or in the stands. “Is Becca okay?”
Oakley shakes her head no with tears sprinkling her eyes. “Not here, I’ll meet you in the tunnel.”
“No, tell me now.”
Her lips quiver, and she mouths, “I said I’ll meet you in the tunnel. I promise this is not the place.”
Oakley is never hostile or demanding, except in the sheets, so I hurry to shower and change when I see a million missed calls and texts from my parents and siblings and one voicemail from Mamaw.
“Sugarbear, you flew high today. That goal seemed like divine intervention. Fly high tomorrow and the rest of your life. I’ll be watching. This body is giving out, but my love never will. I knew I couldn’t pass until you found Oakley. She lights up everyone’s life just like you always have. Take care of Becca and make your mom and dad grandparents—it’s the best job in the world. Love you. Now, go win the Cup!”
With tears gushing down my cheeks, I have to get to Oakley and Becca. The guys stop and stare as I walk past them and by the time I reach the door, the locker room is eerily quiet. Oakley is standing in the tunnel with her lips tucked inside her mouth. Her knee is bouncing with her arms crossed. When she sees me, she comes flying into me. “I’m so sorry.”
I surround her with my arms, hugging as tight as I’ve ever hugged anyone. After minutes or hours of crying, I choke on my words. “When?”
She cries in my ear, “Becca got a call from your dad with a few minutes left in the third.”
When we break apart, I ask, “Where’s Becca? God, she must be devastated.”
“I don’t know. She said she needed to be alone.”
Grief rips through me once again, tears getting trapped in my lashes, and I need to get out of here to be alone with Oakley, Becca, and my thoughts. With our hands intertwined, we snake through the hallway, and we find Becca wrapped in John Basilio’s arms.
“Becca.”
She jumps, looking startled with mascara blackening her eyes. “Corby.” She leaps into my arms, and we cry together. “I loved her so much.”
“I know. We all did.” I want to let go of my sister, but I can’t. She’s always been my best friend, and the two of us along with Isaiah spent the most time with Mamaw. It was the time when Mom still worked and Mamaw babysat us after school. “Let’s get to the hotel.”
Becca gives a meek wave to John, but he comes over and says, “Shearer, I know you and your Mamaw were close. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, man, I need to get out of here.”
I talk to the coach and instead of taking the team bus to the hotel, I get permission to go back with my sister and wife and skip the presser.
The uber to the hotel is full of sniffles but no talk. Finally, we make it to my room, and the shrieks that come from my sister cause me to fall apart again. Oakley rubs my back, kisses my cheek, and says, “Let it out. My mom always told me to let it all out.”
“Mamaw left me a voicemail.” Oakley and Becca dart their eyes between each other. “I’m serious. Listen.” I play the recording, and waves crash against my heart once again, unable to believe that Mamaw is gone and her last thoughts were of me, Oakley, Becca, and our happiness.
“Mom was with her and said she saw you score twice. That must be when she called you. Then drifted to sleep with a smile on her face.” Becca holds back her tears. “She also told Mom that I would find my lifetime guy, this year. Said she had a dream last night, and that my guy would be the male version of Oakley, keeping me guessing.”
The floodgates open.
All three of us sob.
Oakley had grown close to Mamaw, asking her how to make meals I love. Mamaw let Oakley give her soft pink highlights, and Mamaw rocked it at the Senior Citizens Center.
My phone gets a notification from Jasper.
Jasper: We’re State Champions. But I don’t feel like celebrating.
Me: Congratulations. Mamaw would have been proud.
Jasper: Did you know she texted or called all of us, even the littles. She asked Mom to record her voice so they would always know she loved them.
Me: She was the best. Always will be.
Jasper: Damn straight. He adds in a laughing emoji. She always said that. You think Mom and Dad would let me say it in her honor at the funeral?
Me: You do what you want to do. That’s the way she would want it.
The dots bounce and bounce until his message comes through.
Jasper: Are you coming home?
Me: Of course.
Jasper: Is that what Mamaw would want? Cause I think she would want you to play your heart out for her.
Me: I’ll talk to Mom and Dad. Love you, little brother.
Jasper: Love you too.
Gathering our thoughts, we call our parents. They’ve decided not to have the funeral until one of my days off so I can come home. It won’t give me much time, but I have an idea of how to honor my grandmother.
Becca hugs me one more time before leaving for her hotel room.
And I say to Oakley, “I need you.”
She replies, just as heartbroken, “I need you too.”
“You stole Mamaw’s heart just like mine. I’m so happy that she was able to come to our wedding reception, and we were able to go home to see her a few times this season.”
“Me too. Mamaw had more to do with why you agreed to the fake marriage than the social media and your reputation, didn't she?”
I nod as I kiss her cheek and slide my lips down her throat. “Yeah.”
“I love how you love so completely,” she says, placing her fingers on my cheek, tilting it so she can kiss me.
Undressing her all but my jersey, I glide my hands slowly over her hips and up to her waist. But Oakley undresses me in a half second. There’s no slowing Oakley down and over the months we’ve been married, I’ve learned when she’s upset, she becomes turbo charged like the BMW. She slips the pants button through the hole, then pushes my pants down, then rips my shirt. The buttons pop like popcorn against the hotel room desk, providing a little comic relief.
She drops to her knees and for the rest of the night, we soothe each other—body and soul.
Thank you for reading Icing the Enemy.