12. Nolan
NOLAN
I overreacted when Bobby got boarded, and Ben Pope will never hear me admit it.
The hit was dirty, but the referee’s arm was already up. The guy would’ve gone to the box without me trying to rearrange his face. I got myself thrown out and had to watch Seattle lose from the trainers’ room.
Now I’m suspended.
I love my team. Sometimes that means I act like a damned fool.
Gunderson gave me the same flat look he uses when a player says something too stupid to answer. The league gave me three games. I can practice, but Pope will center somebody else on my line while I sit at home and hate every second.
He’ll probably be right about some of my choices too. Fuck him for that.
Gunderson puts one of the depth wingers beside Pope and Bobby so they can prepare for playing without me.
I take reps against them and watch Pope point the guy toward the right spot before each drill.
The line looks wrong. Bobby keeps drifting toward me after the whistle like I’m still the one he’s supposed to find, then remembers and turns back.
Bobby is skating well enough to bitch when Pope tells him to shorten a shift. He’s fine after the hit, and I still cost the team a game.
Pope keeps everything between us on the ice. He calls for the puck when he’s open and tells me to switch when the drill sends us into the same corner. I do it without arguing. Neither of us brings up the locker room, although I can feel his attention whenever I finish a check near the boards.
I keep every hit clean to prove I’m not completely untrainable.
My legs are burning when practice ends. The others file through the gate, shouting about lunch. I start after them, but Nara points at the bucket of pucks beside the bench. “You have somewhere to be?”
“Several places. All important.” I make it as far as the gate before she nudges the bucket with her skate.
“Haugen needs someone to feed him passes.”
The door at the far end of the rink opens, and Sindre steps onto the ice in full gear. He’s been waiting until the main practice cleared so he can do his rehab work without anyone crashing into him. He pushes away from the boards with a grin he doesn’t bother hiding.
I haven’t seen him look that happy since he got hurt. Sindre takes a slow lap while Nara watches from the bench, but his head keeps turning toward the empty stretch of ice ahead of him. He wants the whole rink and all the speed he can get.
“Fine,” I tell Nara. “But this counts as community service.”
“Whatever gets you through it.”
I skate out to meet Sindre while Nara tells him to keep the pace easy and listen when she calls him in. He nods, then follows the plan until he’s past her.
Once Sindre is out of her reach, his strides get longer. He leans harder into the next turn and asks me for the puck with his stick already on the ice.
I send it to him softly. He catches the pass near the middle and snaps it into the empty net hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Take it down,” Nara calls.
Sindre circles back toward me. “That was down.”
“That was bullshit.” I collect another puck with my stick. “You know she can see you, right?”
“I feel good.”
“Congratulations. Do what she said.”
He gives me a dirty look, then skates the next pass at the pace Nara asked for.
By the time he comes back around, he’s speeding up again.
The impatience is familiar from my second year.
Another player went down across the back of my legs near the end of the season, and my knee bent in a direction it had no business going. After surgery, the doctor told me recovery would decide whether I got my speed back. He wouldn’t tell me I’d play in the NHL again.
The team left on a road trip while I was still sleeping in a brace.
I watched every game from my couch with my leg propped up, wondering who would have my stall the next season.
Guys called and told me the room missed me, then changed the subject when I asked about training camp.
Nobody knew. I hated them for not promising anyway.
Rehab scared the shit out of me. I treated every exercise like a test I could pass early, then added more work when the trainers weren’t looking. My knee swelled at night, and I kept my mouth shut the next morning because I thought honesty would slow me down.
The season ended before I could talk anybody into putting me back in a game. Summer gave my knee the time I hadn’t been willing to give it myself. When training camp opened, it held. I got lucky.
Sindre comes in too fast for the next pass. His breathing is louder now, and his next stop sends more snow off one skate than the other. I pull the puck behind my blade and make him stop.
“What?” he asks.
“I got hurt my second year. Bad. There was a while when I didn’t know if I’d have a career after it.”
His irritation eases, but he still reaches for the puck. “I know.”
Right. Professional hockey players have career pages, and rookies know how to use the internet.
“Then you know I got better.” I keep my skate on the puck. “I listened to the trainers and took the time. Look at me now.”
Sindre looks me over. “Suspended?”
“Shut your ass up, kid.”
He laughs and tries to hook the puck out from under my skate. I send it back toward the bucket instead.
“Nara said one more.” He tries to skate around me.
“That was before you tried to turn rehab into a conditioning drill.”
“The team needs defensemen.”
He looks toward the empty rink when he says it. After my surgery, I spent too much time thinking about the player who would take my minutes if I couldn’t get back fast enough. Sindre won’t stop worrying because I tell him to.
“They keep losing.” He drags his blade through the loose snow.
“I noticed.”
Sindre turns back to me. “I could help.”
“Then don’t fuck up your chance to help later because you got impatient today. The team needs you healthy, so let her get you there.”
Nara calls from the boards, “He’s done.”
Sindre looks from Nara to me. I skate toward the bucket and start gathering pucks.
“Traitor,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah. Get off the ice.”
I don’t tell him I rushed every part of my own recovery and got lucky.
Sindre leaves with Nara while I carry the bucket toward the gate. Most of the locker room has cleared by the time I make it back. Pope is standing near his stall in dark sweats and a T-shirt, rubbing a towel over his wet hair.
He lowers it when he sees me. “Haugen looked good.”
“Haugen tried to turn his rehab skate into a bag skate.” I set the bucket beside the bench.
Pope hooks the towel around his neck. “You stop him?”
“Nara stopped him. I provided emotional support.”
Pope almost smiles. “You’re good at that?”
“Ask Bobby.”
His shoulders tighten. Shit. “Okay, that was shitty.”
Pope drops the towel onto the bench. He looks surprised. “A little.”
“Don’t get used to me admitting that.”
“Wasn’t planning to.” He watches me for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
His wet hair is sticking up in several directions, and his shirt is clinging to his chest. I remember him staring at my mouth on the porch and wish he’d taken me up on the offer. Oh well. You live and you learn.
Pope picks up his bag. “See you tomorrow.”
“Try not to enjoy playing without me too much.”
“I’ll do my best.” He says it dryly and leaves.
At home, I put on a record and try not to think about the team playing without me. The group chat fills with arguments over where to get dinner tomorrow before the game. Pope doesn’t say anything.
I mute the chat and make it through half of one side before I pick up my phone again. Pope’s contact is already open from the last time I looked at it. I type two words.
Still curious?
I send it before I can talk myself out of it.
The message sits there on my screen. I should unsend it or throw my phone off the porch and into the Sound, even though there’s no chance in hell I could throw that far.
Three gray dots appear beneath my text, and I stare at the screen.