Chapter 19
ALWAYS TOMORROW
LAKE
The loss in Montreal chases me on the plane to Denver.
It was a sloppy, lazy game, especially after we strategized for it, and especially since we should have won.
We can do better. Hell, we can dominate.
That’s my plan when we land in the mile-high city, when we hit the arena for morning skate, and when I line up my gear in just the right order in the locker room later for the game.
Wait. Should I switch out the shoulder pads for the elbow pads this time? Yeah, that’s a good idea. Best to break this losing streak before it even becomes one. I move them around in front of my stall.
“You’re switching things up already?” Riggs asks from his stall across from me.
“You memorized my routine. That’s sweet.”
“Yeah, it’s sweet that I’m observant,” he deadpans.
“Fair point. I’ll allow it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“And yeah. I’m switching it up. Don’t like losing,” I say.
“Me neither,” Riggs seconds.
“Gotta do whatever it takes.”
Riggs sits back on the bench in front of his stall, his brow furrowed like he’s giving that some thought. “I hear you,” he says, then lines up his gear in the same order as mine right when Miller strides in.
His gaze swings from me to Riggs and back, adding up the evidence. “I’m in.”
As a goalie, he’s got way more gear, but he follows the same basic order and the three of us are getting ready and lacing up our skates in sync.
It’s going to be a good game. I just know it. Even though when I hit the ice, my gaze snags on a banner hanging in the rafters. One that has my last name on it. A reminder that I have a late dinner tonight. One I wish I were looking forward to.
But for now, I have a game to play, and once I’m on the ice, I’m free.
The game always clears my head.
Hockey, only hockey.
* * *
We’re down by one. That’s nothing. That’s one goal to even it, and one more to pull ahead.
We’ve got this. My heart is pounding against my rib cage and my thighs are screaming as I charge down the ice, flying toward the Denver goal.
I’m jostling for the puck, and I’ve almost got it.
I lunge for it with my stick but wind up pulling Denver’s center with it.
Fuck my life.
The ref shoots his arm above his head and calls for a hooking penalty.
I curse up a storm as I skate toward the penalty box. The second the door closes, I rip off my helmet and slam it down.
Fuck, that was amateur hour.
I should have done better.
When I look up there’s a shot of me on the Jumbotron in the box. I’m still not used to seeing that guy with short hair looking back at me even though it’s been more than a few days now.
Maybe the haircut is fucking me up? I haven’t won since Remy took the scissors to my head. Is that why we’re losing?
But there’s no way, since the mere thought of her loosens the tension in my jaw, the pressure in my head. Remy can’t be anything but the best of luck.
This is just one of those games, and it sucks. But there’s time to turn it around.
The clock ticks interminably down, and I make sure I don’t look at their banners again. Don’t want to think about the dinner. Don’t want to think about anything but owning this game. I yank my helmet back on, and when the clock eats up all the time, I fly out of there.
* * *
But the best laid plans of hockey players don’t always work out, since we trudge off the ice with an L. Two in a row, and I’m pissed.
Hockey is my happy place. It’s where I don’t worry about my family, or injury, or the past, or the future.
Daniel catches up with me as I turn into the locker room. “Good game. Tough loss,” he says, and there are no playful nicknames on nights like this, when we lose.
“Yup,” I say, then brace myself in the doorway for whatever’s coming next. I doubt he tracked me down to give me a sympathy pat on the shoulder.
“There are some local press who want to chat with you. Since you’re from here and all.”
“Right,” I bite out. I went to college nearby, so even though I doubt that’s the only reason the press wants to talk to me, it’s hard to turn him down.
I don’t like talking to the media, ever, but maybe it’ll be good for Remy at work if I come off as a nice guy and not a standoffish jerk.
I’m thinking of her as I say, “Sure, I’ll talk. ”
A few minutes later, I sink onto a chair in the media room, ready to share some PR drivel about missed opportunities, cleaner play, and avoiding penalties, when a reporter shoots up a hand and clears her throat. “Andie Blackwell with The Sports Network.”
Tension shoots down my spine. That’s Heather’s old coach from college. I’d heard she was a color commentator for the Denver team now, but I never dug deeper into that.
I meet her gaze across the room, and it’s eerie. Surreal even. I remember going to Heather’s games in college, seeing her huddling with Andie and the other coaches.
“This is where Heather Axelrod used to play when she was in the pros,” Andie says. “Did that make tonight’s game harder for you?”
No.
But I can’t say that. I’d sound like a calloused dick.
They want me to say it’s hard. They want me to say it’s always tough playing in the arena where my deceased wife was the star of the women’s pro league.
Where her number was retired and hangs from the rafters.
They want the same story they always have—the golden hockey couple.
“It’s tough whenever you’re on the road,” I say.
“Of course. But here she left quite a legacy,” Andie pushes. “Was that on your mind during the penalty or at any other time?”
I feel like I’m wearing a straitjacket. My jaw clenches as I chew on what to say.
The truth is, I hardly ever think of her.
The truth is, I’m a cold, heartless jerk because I was falling out of love with her when she took her motorcycle out, driving fast and dangerously.
And she was falling out of love with me too.
Of course I was devastated when she died.
Of course it upended my world. Of course I grieved.
I cared deeply about Heather, and I wanted her to live a long, beautiful life.
But no one wants to hear that we were talking about divorce at the end. That we’d decided to separate the day before the accident. Least of all her parents, who I’m having dinner with tonight.
I meet Andie’s inquisitive gaze.
“My mind was on scoring. On trying to be a good teammate. But yeah, of course I think of the legacy Heather left, and I know her family would be proud.”
And that’s true enough.
* * *
Later, I leave my teammates behind at the hotel and head to an Italian place Heather’s parents loved, finding them at a booth with a red-and-white checked tablecloth and a parmesan cheese shaker. It’s where they always took us out to dinner after games.
“Lake.” Her mother stands to give me a warm hug. “So good to see you. Bummer about the game, but we were rooting for you.”
“We always are,” her dad says.
“Thanks. Just sorry we didn’t win tonight. Especially since you were there.”
“There’s always tomorrow,” he says jovially. Then something painful flashes in his eyes—the same green as Heather’s. Maybe it’s the awareness, for her, there was no tomorrow.
“Yeah, there is.” I sit and grab a menu so I can avoid the truth about tomorrows.
I barely notice the menu as guilt sits heavily in my gut. They think I’m grieving more than I am, but correcting that assumption would hurt them more.
They like to talk about their only child. And I’m not going to deny some grieving parents the chance to take a trip down memory lane to better days.
Once we order, her mom talks about the game, then says, “Heather really loved playing at that arena.” She’s wistful and understandably so.
“She did,” I say, and so it begins.
I do my best to honor her memory. For them and for the eight years I spent with Heather, both in college and after.
Chiming in now and then, I listen as they talk about her, what she was like, what she enjoyed, what made her laugh.
I eat my pasta primavera and nod, but my thoughts are back in San Francisco, with the woman I can’t wait to see again.