Chapter 11 #2
We won 3-0. I didn’t let in a single puck. Kept picturing those homophobic Plague assholes every time I made a save.
I wait a few minutes, then add:
Also was thinking about your beard on my balls.
I don’t expect a reply tonight. Or maybe ever. But apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
He doesn’t reply. And I’m kinda bummed out, but I’m also kinda busy, because we’re playing Abbotsford again the next night, and Coach starts me again. “You seem to have ’em dialed in, so go for it,” he says.
This catches me totally off guard, but I don’t get much of a chance to worry about it. Warmups rush past, and suddenly it’s game time again.
The second night in Abbotsford starts differently. They know I’m coming now. Their coach has shown them video of my glove side, and their players are chirping before the puck even drops.
“Nice shutout, pretty boy, but you won’t do it twice.”
But I’m still coasting on the high of yesterday’s game, still channeling that weird calm I found when I pictured the Plague game, with the Stickhandlers supercharged to vanquish their opponent, and Forest there on the ice, watching me, needing my help.
Yeah, okay. Let’s just do it again. I tap my posts—left, right, center—and settle in.
First period, I’m a wall. Nothing gets through. Not their top line’s tic-tac-toe passing play. Not their defenseman’s booming slapshot. Nothing.
Second period, they get desperate. Their captain—Holmgren, a thick-necked guy with three missing teeth—crashes my crease on every play. On their power play, he plants himself right in front of me, his ass basically in my face.
“How’s the view down there?” he jeers.
“Better than looking at your face,” I answer. “Maybe fire your dentist.”
He’s so annoyed that he doesn’t see his teammate’s shot coming. It hits him in the leg and ricochets in. Just like that, my shutout streak is over.
I slam my stick against the post, furious with myself. But then I remember two things: One, sticks are expensive. Two, my high school coach always said, “The only save that matters is the next one.”
Right. Reset. Focus. When Holmgren comes in alone five minutes later, I read his move before he even makes it. Glove save, clean as they come.
“Fuck you,” he spits.
“You’re not my type.” I toss the puck to the ref.
Our guys feed off my energy. Rigsy scores on a breakaway. Martinez adds another on the power play. Our captain gets an empty-netter when they pull their goalie in desperation.
Final score: 3-1. Back-to-back wins. Sixty-six saves on sixty-seven shots for the weekend.
Coach claps me on the shoulder. “Whatever you’ve changed, Becker, keep doing it.”
In the locker room, I check my phone again. Nothing from Forest.
I open the chatbot. How do I convince the hot bartender to bring me home again and fuck me? He had a really good time the other night. I don’t know why he’s ghosting me now.
The AI thinks for a moment:
Perhaps he’s not ghosting you but simply busy. Or perhaps he’s a one-and-done kind of guy. Or perhaps he’d like to text you, but he’s trapped under something heavy.
Even AI is punking me now. Still, when I cram my long legs into a coach seat for the three-hour flight back to Denver, I pay for the WiFi like a loser and keep my phone in my lap on the way home.
Which is why I notice right away when I get a new text from a strange number.
Hi Beck, this is Coach Powers from the Cougars. Congratulations on your two wins this weekend.
I almost drop my phone. This can’t be a real text. In fact… I hike myself up a few inches and look around the plane at my teammates. Someone must be playing a trick. But nobody seems to be looking at me. Everyone is asleep. Rigsy is legit drooling on Martinez’s shoulder.
Huh.
I sit back down again and stare at the text. I guess it won’t hurt to reply.
Thank you, Coach! Happy to put up some great stats.
I read it twice before hitting send. But for once I didn’t include any obscure trivia or awkward bits and bobs.
Powers
A little bird told me that the worst beer league team in Colorado got their ass whooped a couple nights ago, with the help of an unfamiliar goalie.
Oh God! This might even be Coach Powers. He knows. But how? He’s like the Eye of Sauron.
Oh wait, some of the Cougars staff are on the Stickhandlers.
Okay, think fast. For once in my life, I actually play it cool.
Beck
Did they now? I wouldn’t know anything about that. Must have been a one-off.
Powers
That’s what I was thinking. It would have to be a one-off, because a pro player can’t really step out on his team like that.
He would never.
Well not usually.
I cringe, and consider adding, please don’t fire me, sir. But I don’t have to, because the next message from the coach isn’t what I’m expecting.
Powers
Let’s have lunch sometime soon. Right after New Years? Maybe Jan 3. We’ll just have a check in, you and me.
My stomach does a weird, swirly thing. Lunch doesn’t sound like a firing squad, exactly. But since I’m me, I’ll probably fuck it up somehow. Yet I can’t exactly turn him down.
Beck
Sounds great. Just tell me when and where.
I hit send and then check my thread with Forest.
Still nothing.
I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh.