Chapter 40 Feels Like My Fault
Forty
Feels Like My Fault
Beck
The tunnel smells like rubber and nerves. My nerves, specifically.
I’m carrying my helmet in one hand and a towel in the other, trying not to look like I’m spiraling. Even though I am. A little.
The first period went okay. One goal. Just one. It was a weird bounce off a deflection—guy fired it from the point, it tipped off our D-man’s skate, and fluttered in like a sad little pigeon.
Not a highlight-reel goal, and not exactly my fault it went in.
Doesn’t matter. It feels like my fault, because that’s how this works.
Clay Powers pulls me aside just before we go back out. He’s calm, which helps. He’s always calm. He’s got that thing head coaches have—like he could guide a sinking ship to shore just by narrowing his eyes.
“Talk more,” he says, looking me right in the face. “That’s the only note I’ve got for you right now.”
I blink. “Okay?”
“You’re seeing everything out there,” he says.
“Your reads are sharp. Positioning’s great.
But these guys don’t know you yet. They need to hear you.
Doesn’t matter if you’re the new guy. Call out screens, call out rebounds, call out the back door.
Doesn’t have to be poetry.” He claps a hand on my shoulder.
“You know what to do, and you’re doing it. So now let them hear you doing it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah.”
He nods. “We’ll figure out how to score this period. You just keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll get you the W.” He turns toward the bench.
The W.
I let that roll around in my chest for a second like it might crack open something warm inside me.
Because this is it. My shot. My fucking NHL debut.
And it’s only one goal. One weird, dumb, unfortunate goal that doesn’t get to define me. I take a breath, jam my helmet back on, and step out onto the ice.
Stoney skates up to me. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Um, what?”
He skates a circle around me. “I told you after your first start that we’d celebrate at your favorite bar. So which one is it?”
I got bigger things to worry about right now, so I blurt the name automatically. “It’s Sportsballs. North Denver.”
“Cool,” he says. “Love that place. Let’s goooooo!” He skates away.
Heart pounding, I go to the crease like I’ve been doing since I was seven. I tap the posts and rough up the resurfaced ice under my feet.
It’s just hockey. Same shit, different building. I hum “True Faith” by New Order, and I watch the face-off. Then I do my best to turn up the volume.
“SCREEN RIGHT!” I yell, loud enough to rattle my own mask. “I got eyes on it.”
“No lane, no lane, don’t let him shoot that!”
“Cover…” I don’t know that player’s name. “No shot for Ugly Mustache!”
“Newgate! Take his stick, not his body!”
“Stoney, shoot the puck!”
It’s a little like casting a spell. The more I holler, the less I think, and the better we play. The guys start yelling back. They trust me. They listen.
“DON’T BLOCK ME, VITEK, YOU’RE SHAPED LIKE A FRIDGE!”
“STONEY, I SWEAR TO GOD, SHOOT THE PUCK.”
He does, and we tie it up halfway through the second on a gritty rebound goal, and it feels like the world exhales.
The second intermission is a sweaty blur, but Powers seems happy with me, and less happy with his forwards. “Shoot, you fuckers. Calgary skates like their butts are made of lead, and we’re still tied?”
Third period he gets his wish. Kapski lights the lantern with a snap from the left circle—clean, gorgeous, highlight-reel shit. The bench goes electric.
Be careful what you wish for, though. A few minutes later, Calgary pulls their goalie and throws everything they’ve got at me. But that’s how this game works, and I’m ready.
One at a time, I shut them down.
Pads, blocker, glove, stick. Rinse and repeat. I play on pure reflex. Pure fire.
When the buzzer goes, I’m actually surprised. The crowd roars like it’s playoff hockey instead of late-season grit. I drop to my knees in the crease for a second, chest heaving.
I did it. I fucking did it. My mom is probably watching, so I get to my feet to look around for a TV camera, but I’m suddenly mobbed by a pack of Cougars.
“Great game, rookie!” says the captain.
“Good hustle!” growls DiCosta, one of their best D-men.
“Yaaaaas, kids!” Stoney yells as we skate toward the handshake line. “I’m buying a round at Sportsballs! Hey, Calgary! You’re invited, too—if you’ve never been to a gay sports bar, you haven’t lived. I’m super popular there.” He says this all with a big smile.
This team is #goals. I’d better be invited back someday, and I think I just improved my chances of that.
“I’m good for a beer, if Stoney’s buying,” Kapski says. He thwacks me on the back. “Right after your press interviews, rookie. I see ’em hovering in the tunnel already.”
Oh God. Interviews? I have the brain power of a sea sponge right now. And that might be an insult to sea sponges.
This could get very awkward, very fast.
Kapski takes the first interviews in the tunnel, and I manage to slide past the cameras and microphones and make it to the showers.
The Cougars have a sweet locker room, by the way, with a sound system playing tunes even in the shower and premium men’s products in the stall. I don’t know what tonka bean is, but I smell like it now.
I dry off with a big, fluffy towel and make my way back to my stall where I start to get dressed. My adrenaline is crashing, and I need my post-game chicken sandwich really badly.
A quick glance at my phone shows me twelve excited texts from my Ice Cats teammates and a Good job honey from my mother.
Not one from Forest though. Not a single one.
I turn my phone face down, so I don’t have to think about it, and I pull on my shirt.
The PR guy hustles over. I know who he is even before he introduces himself, because his suit is perfectly pressed and his teeth are extra shiny. He confirms his identity by informing me that the press conference starts in seven minutes. “And you’re the guest of honor,” he says.
“Press conference,” I say dully. “With, like, chairs and a lectern?”
His expression wonders which planet I’ve dropped in from.
“That’s the general setup, yes. Don’t sweat it, though.
They just want to hear you say how excited you were to get the call-up, and how good it feels to help the Cougars win a game.
Someone will probably ask if you feel ready to support the team into the playoffs, and you’ll say yes. ”
“See, you make it sound so easy. But as soon as someone shoves a microphone in my face, I lose feeling in my face. That’s when the word vomit starts.”
His smile dulls a fraction. “But not actual vomit, right?”
“If I weren’t so hungry right now, we couldn’t rule that out.”
He gives me a weird look and then stands there watching me tie my tie, as if he isn’t sure I can do it myself.
As soon as I’m presentable, he has me follow him into a windowless room where the postgame pressers happen.
Honestly, I feel a little cheated, because this place looks more glamorous on television.
I sit down in my metal folding chair, feeling like a prisoner in front of the firing squad.
A number of journalists and photographers crowd in, and then Coach Powers and Kapski take the seats on either side of me.
Coach Powers opens with a short, no-nonsense intro. “We’re proud of the team tonight. Everyone battled. Becker James gave us a hell of a performance in his NHL debut—big stops, calm presence, and a well-earned win. We’ll open it up to questions now.”
The first question comes fast. “Beck, what was going through your head when you stepped onto NHL ice for the first time tonight?”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
The real answer is something like: Don’t fall. Don’t forget how to play hockey. Why does my helmet feel like it’s on sideways?
But none of that will sound good in print. “Um…” I swallow hard. “I was hoping the regulars at my favorite bar were watching.”
Polite laughter follows, so I guess that wasn’t too terrible.
The next question comes immediately from a guy with a notebook instead of a handheld recorder and a voice like he’s been doing this since before I was born.
“Beck, there’s been some chatter on the AHL circuit about your uneven performance this season.
But you were a rock tonight. Did you have something to prove? ”
And my brain just… blanks.
My mouth opens again, but this time nothing comes out. I glance at Coach Powers, but he stays politely still, letting me handle it. Kapski doesn’t move either. They’re letting me stand on my own two feet here.
Oh God. Seconds tick by. The silence throbs.
That’s when I spot a guy easing into the door at the back of the room. He’s standing against the wall, and he’s wearing a flannel shirt.
Forest.
He’s here in this room.
It’s not even a low-blood-sugar hallucination. That calm, brown gaze is one hundred percent real when it lands on me, and he puts a hand to his chest and takes a slow breath in. Relax, Beck.
He lifts his hand. Not like a wave. More like a lifeline. He’s holding a paper bag with the beginnings of a grease stain on the side—the kind that might hold a postgame chicken sandwich.
The message is clear. Survive this interview, and you can have the sandwich.
Something settles in my chest. I clear my throat and turn back to the reporter. “Yeah. I did have something to prove tonight. But not to anyone in this room. To myself, I guess.”
“And how’d you accomplish that?” the reporter asks. “How did you turn your season around?”
“Well actually…” I let out an awkward laugh, thinking about the game that turned my season around—the beer league game against the Plague.
“I remembered why I used to play hockey—for fun, as a team. And I surrounded myself with good people.” I give Forest a pointed glance.
“Nobody does well in this sport in a vacuum. Coach Powers helped me figure that out, and I’ve been super grateful. ”
Lord, that better be the last question, because I’m holding it together like a champ, here, and I’m too emotional to take any more deep questions.
Luckily, the next one is for Kapski, and I survive the next seven minutes on adrenaline, plus a few more hockey platitudes.
Then it’s finally over. The reporters get up and start to file out. Coach Powers shakes my hand and tells me he’ll see me at Sportsballs.
“Oh, you’re coming?” I babble.
He looks at his watch. “I’ve got time for a couple beers. Wouldn’t miss it. Kinda wonder who’s behind the bar, though, because doesn’t that guy own the place?”
I swivel my head, and here comes Forest, threading his way through the bodies in the room, a determined look in his eye.
I can’t look anywhere else. I’m locked onto him like a laser beam. Then he’s right in front of me, gripping the shoulder of my suit jacket. The pressure of his hand, combined with the intensity in his brown eyes, is like medicine.
“Look, I’m still angry at you,” I say. Although, right this second, it’s hard to remember why. “I didn’t even tell you about tonight because…”
“I know why you didn’t tell me,” he says. “I get it. And I’m sorry.”
We’re sort of gaping at each other, and then Coach Powers clears his throat. I realize with horror that the head coach of the most important hockey franchise on the continent has just been third-wheeled by our staredown.
“See you at the bar, Beck,” he says.
I swallow hard. “Thanks, Coach.”
He chuckles and passes me with a thump on the back. “Good game, by the way. We’ll be seeing more of that here, I hope.”
Even those career-boosting words aren’t enough to make me look away from Forest, who suddenly pulls me into a hug. “God, I’ve missed you,” he says, and his voice is rough.
“You… have?” My own voice catches a little.
“So much,” he whispers, pulling me in. “It’s bad. My friends even tried to stage an intervention.”
“I didn’t think you…you…” I have trouble swallowing again.
“Cared? Aw, Beck. I always did. I still do. And it messed me up.”
“But you…” A little flare of latent anger curls inside my chest, even as I revel in the grip of his hug. “Why’d you do me dirty like that? It’s… It’s insulting.”
“Yeah.” He sighs and pulls back. “That was just me being an idiot. I was fucking scared to put myself on the line again.”
“James!” yells a voice from the corridor. “Where are you, buddy? Time to get drunk with Uncle Stoney!”
“Shit,” I whisper.
“Go,” Forest says. He puts the paper bag in my hand and then turns me toward the door. “Eat this chicken sandwich. Go on. We’ll talk later. Ride with Stoneman to the bar, okay? I’ll make sure you get home safe.”
After one more soul-breaking glance at Forest, I turn and go.