Chapter 5 #2
A few minutes later, Davis threaded a puck between Eminem’s skates, and they exchanged smiles.
Yeah. We could do this. We could move forward as a team, superstitions at all.
Warmups came to an end. We returned to the locker room briefly, then came back out for the game.
Since this was the home opener, we came out in numerical order as the announcer introduced us by our number, name, and hometown. As one of the alternate captains, I’d gone second to last for the past two seasons. Baddy had always gone before me, and then Leif, being the captain, went out last.
Tonight, we had a new alternate captain.
“From Samara, Russia, number twelve, alternate captain Nikandr Mikhailov.”
Mix took off, waving to the crowd as he headed for the circle.
“From Houston, Texas, number thirty-six, alternate captain Luis Abadiano!”
Baddy skated out.
No one left but me.
I swallowed. Here we go.
“And finally, from Abbottsford, British Columbia, captain of your Pittsburgh Whiskey Rebels—number seventy-two, Avery Caldwell!”
The roar of the crowd made me smile, and I waved at the fans as I hit the ice.
Then I joined my teammates in the circle, and the announcer repeated, “Please welcome this season’s Pittsburgh Whiskey Rebels!
”, which prompted even more cheering. My heart pounded, and not in an entirely bad way for a change.
The fans were pumped. Maybe I could feed off that and get into the game the way I needed to tonight.
The cheers started to die down. At this point, most of the team would normally retreat to the bench while the starting lineups for both teams stood at the blue lines for the national anthems. This time, every player remained in the circle around center ice, and the visitors joined us, slotting themselves between Whiskey Rebels
I gritted my teeth. Even though I knew what was coming and I’d been steeling myself for it all damn week, I wasn’t ready.
The arena went dark, and I stole a second to close my eyes and swallow hard. This was going to be hell, but I was determined to make it through.
For my team. For our fans. For Leif’s family. For Leif’s memory.
For myself.
The lights stayed down, and the screen lit up, showing a photo of Leif in his jersey, no helmet on and his dark hair neatly arranged, with his stick in one gloved hand and that brilliant smile on his face.
The announcer’s voice was unusually subdued as he said, “In August of this year, the Pittsburgh Whiskey Rebel family suffered a terrible loss when Leif Erlandsson unexpectedly passed away.”
I pushed out a ragged breath, the thin cloud forming in front of me as I stared up at the screen.
I didn’t hear much of what the announcer said.
I was too focused on the clips of Leif. There were some highlight reel shots of his most incredible goals, and that time he’d come out of the penalty box, taken a pass from Davis and scored before the other team had known what hit them.
There were shots of him and Rachel with their kids at the family skate on Christmas Eve, on the ice during practice, and at home.
There was the image the team had displayed of the smiling parents with their minutes-old daughter at the hospital one night when Leif had understandably had to miss a game.
Pictures and clips showed him with his teammates over the years, both on and off the ice.
I laughed even as some tears spilled down my cheeks when the video switched to some of us pranking one of the rookies last season, followed by some of our other hijinks.
The crowd applauded, laughed, and cheered, and it was hard not to fall apart as I listened to an arena full of people showing my best friend love.
The video shifted back to the still image of Leif.
“In honor of Early’s memory,” the announcer went on, “his number is now officially retired.” A spotlight appeared in the rafters, illuminating a black piece of fabric hanging beside the retired numbers of two legendary Pittsburgh players. “Welcome to your place of honor, number sixty-one.”
As the crowd roared again, the black fabric was rolled up, revealing his number, his name, and the years spanning both his life and his hockey career. Both were too short. Much, much too short.
I struggled to choke back my tears. I’d told him a long time ago that his jersey would end up in the rafters someday.
“They’re gonna put you up there with Wilcox and Reynolds,” I’d said during one morning skate. “I bet you a thousand dollars.”
He’d laughed and smacked my shoulder. “You’re on. Because I’ll either get my jersey up there or some of your money. I can’t even decide which I want more.”
I’d flipped him off, and we’d both laughed, and here in the present, I’d have given anything to be counting out that money for him a decade or two from now.
I’d have sold my soul to listen to him chirping at me and rubbing it in that I’d lost. Or, even better, to be standing at a podium and telling him “I told you so” in front of a packed arena.
Oh, but this wasn’t over yet.
Rachel and the kids were introduced, walking out from the bench onto a long black carpet. She held little Elsa on her hip, and the twins, Linnea and Kalle, walked close beside her. Linnea clutched Rachel’s hand while Kalle gazed around with huge eyes.
The announcer spoke again, “We now ask that Houston captain Jon Zachary and Pittsburgh captain Avery Caldwell join Early’s family for the ceremonial puck drop.”
I swallowed hard as I skated away from my teammates to join the family.
When I made eye contact with Rachel, her chin quivered. She let go of Linnea’s hand and hugged me fiercely with one arm. When she let me go, she tapped the C on my jersey and managed a smile through her tears. “The team is in good hands.”
I almost cried, but instead pulled her into another hug as I tried to keep myself together.
There was a little tug at my sleeve, and I looked to see Elsa pulling on the fabric.
“Hey, kiddo.” I gave her a gentle hug and kissed her forehead.
She smiled. At not even two years old, she didn’t understand what was happening tonight or what had been happening the last several weeks.
She was blissfully unaware of why everyone around her was so sad, and tragically too young to have much if any memory of her father.
God, this whole night was going to destroy me.
Then I shifted my attention to Kalle and Linnea.
They were older—they’d turned six in July—and from what Rachel had told me, while they were still learning what death truly meant, they did understand that their dad wasn’t coming back.
Linnea was crying, but her brother was trying hard to hold it together.
Tears beaded on his eyelashes, and his chin quivered when he looked at me.
I crouched, took off my glove, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay to cry, buddy. Trust me—” I gestured around us, and my voice cracked as I said, “You’re not the only one.”
With that, he had his arms around my neck, and he was sniffling against my shoulder pad.
I closed my eyes and hugged him. Linnea joined, and I closed my eyes and tried to keep myself together.
The network was probably apoplectic about this ceremony taking forever, and the team might even get fined or some shit for delay of game.
In that moment, I honestly didn’t care. These poor kids were at center ice a month after they’d lost their dad. Everyone could fucking wait.
After a moment, they both let me go, and they wiped their eyes with shaky hands.
“I’ll see you and your mom after the game, okay?” I said.
Without speaking, they nodded. Then they both stepped back and clung to Rachel’s legs.
Zachary, who I’d known from around the League but wasn’t close to, waited patiently. When Rachel and I were ready, he took his position opposite me. Rachel held out the puck. We all offered smiles for the camera. Then she dropped the puck.
I gave her and the kids another round of hugs. As they headed back to the locker room, Zachary turned to me and extended his hand.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said. “Always hard to lose a teammate, but I know you two were tight.”
God, was everyone conspiring to make me lose it on live TV tonight?
But as I’d done every goddamned day of training camp, practice, media availability, and just… existing, I kept it under the surface.
Accepting the handshake, pretending my jersey wasn’t damp with the tears of two kids who’d lost their dad, I nodded sharply. “Thanks. It’s, um… It’s been tough.”
Mercifully, that was the end of the memorial for Leif. Thank God, because I didn’t think I was going to last another minute.
And at the same time…
It was over? Now we were just supposed to… move on? Play hockey?
Apparently so, because everyone but the starters returned to their respective benches, and we took our places on the blue lines for the anthem.
Holy fuck, this was surreal. It was such a normal thing—standing here, listening to the anthem, getting my head in the game—but I didn’t know how to breathe around normal right now.
It had been less than ten minutes since they’d unveiled Leif’s jersey in the rafters, even less since I’d been comforting his kids, and now I was supposed to step back into normal like it was nothing?
I couldn’t go back in the locker room and catch my goddamned breath for a minute?
No. No, I couldn’t, because my team and our fans and my best friend’s memory were counting on all of us—were counting on me—to stay upright and play hockey.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that, only that I needed to. I had to.
“You all right, Calds?” Davis’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
I shook myself, then nodded. “I’m good.” I gestured with my stick toward Houston’s goal. “How about we put a few in the back of their net for Early?”
My linemate grinned. “Can’t imagine a better tribute. Let’s do it.”
We set up at center ice for the faceoff.
Peyton glanced at all of us as he skated up to the dot. Apparently satisfied we were all in position, he faced the other center.
The puck dropped. He easily won the faceoff, and just like that, we were off.
In an instant, the weight of the night tumbled off my shoulders.
Now that the game was moving, I fell into the groove.
Passing. Bodying my way past a pest of a defenseman.
Calling for the puck. Catching it on my stick and shooting it.
No goal, but the puck rebounded and Peyton notched a shot, too.
This time the goalie froze it, and the whistle blew.
Fine. Offensive zone faceoff. I could work with that.
Peyton won that faceoff too, but we quickly lost possession. Houston tried to break away, and they were promptly stopped at the blue line by our D.
Our shift was over. The second line came out, and a moment later, our defense peeled away to let in a pair of fresh bodies.
The game went back and forth, and every time I was on the bench, I twitched with frustration. I needed to get out there. We needed to score. We needed to win.
A few times when I was on the bench, the impulse to look up at Leif’s number was too much to resist. After glancing up three separate times and then having to pull myself together, I kept my gaze very firmly at ice level.
I didn’t even look up at the Jumbotron unless I was checking the time, and I pointedly didn’t let my gaze drift toward the retired jerseys.
Leif belonged up there. I belonged down here. That was the way it was now.
And Houston was playing like they wanted to win this one, but like hell were we losing after we’d raised Leif’s number.
“Next shift,” I told Davis and Peyton. “One of us”—I gestured at them and myself—“is getting one into the net.”
“Sounds good to me,” Davis said.
Peyton held up his gloved fist. “Let’s do it.”
We bumped fists with him, and when it was our turn to hit the ice, we flew over the boards.
Willie was holding the puck behind our net, waiting for us to complete the shift change. When Ollie went to the bench, Willie passed me the puck and skated off the ice himself.
Houston was trying for a line change too, but they’d waited too long while Willie had been behind the net. By the time they went for it, we were already heading into their zone. Peyton had the puck and he danced between a couple of skaters who tried but failed to get in his way.
I was already almost to the crease, and when I realized he’d broken free of the defense, I smacked my stick on the ice.
Without hesitation, he fired the puck at me, and I whipped it right on goal.
The netminder never saw it coming.
I roared with triumph as the goal horn sounded and the fans went wild. It was only the first goal of the game—hell, the first goal of the season—but… fuck it. We needed this momentum.
All we had to do now was keep it going.
By the time I dropped onto the bench in the locker room after the final buzzer, I was exhausted. Some of that was just getting back into the swing of playing in the regular season; the first few games were always a little bit of a rude awakening no matter how conditioned I was.
Some of it, though, was definitely the emotional start to the night.
I would never be used to seeing Leif’s number up there in the rafters. Not now. Not this soon. Not when he hadn’t retired in all the glory he’d deserved.
The club had done right by him, though, and they’d honored Leif. The fans had cheered for him, and I had no doubt there’d been a lot of tears up there in the stands.
And we’d won. On Leif’s night, with his widow and children in the building, we’d crushed Houston 4-1, and it felt absolutely incredible.
Was this closure? Something like closure? I didn’t know. In some ways, the ceremony had left me ragged, but in others, it had soothed me in ways I couldn’t explain, but had desperately needed soothing. In the end, I’d composed myself enough to play hockey.
My teammates had, too.
After sixty minutes of hockey, I was as tired as if I’d just played a grueling seven-game series.
I was trembling as I stripped off my gear.
Physically and emotionally, I was completely wrung out.
I’d held it together all goddamned night, making myself stay strong for everyone including myself.
I’d succeeded. I’d stayed together. Maybe that meant I was finally done falling apart at the slightest provocation.
Was this what it felt like when grief started to lift?
Was it too much to hope that after just a few weeks, I might start feeling better instead of worse?
I thought so… right up until Coach’s postgame speech. It was a lot of the usual, but then came his closing words:
“You boys did good out there,” he said. “You did the fans proud. You did me proud.” His voice cracked as he added, “You did Early’s memory proud.”
And fuck me, but the dam broke.