Chapter 47
CALLUM
It’s all down to this.
Ironhearts vs Arrows.
Whoever wins the game today advances to the playoffs.
Anaheim was the underdog who climbed up the standings with a vengeance this season.
Tensions are high with both teams duking it out.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been shoved into the boards.
Kubanski dropped gloves because their winger wouldn’t stop chirping at him, earning him a five-minute penalty early in the first period.
While they failed to convert on the power play, the Arrows scored a goal off the rush by their winger when we didn’t expect it.
During the second period, we managed to catch a break in their defense, aggressively driving to crash their net before our centerman ripped a shot over their goalie’s gloves.
Tied at 1-1, we head into the penultimate minute of the third period with the noise of twenty thousand spectators shaking the ice below our feet.
Under my helmet, sweat gathers along my forehead as I watch Novak drop to his knees to stop the puck from sliding in. He covers and holds down on it, ending the play for the moment before we position ourselves for the next drop.
I’m trying to focus and figure out where the game is headed, but it’s tough. We’re losing steam, playing on enemy ice, and exhaustion is beginning to set in. My heart is pounding so hard, it hurts to breathe. The burn behind my eyes is only slightly more bearable than the fire in my muscles.
Moore faces off against their center and, after a quick grapple, steals the puck.
We take off, pushing the play into the offensive zone.
He weaves between Anaheim’s players and slices it to me.
The thunk of vulcanized rubber hitting the tip of my tape gets me speeding through center ice.
I try to set up a shot but Anaheim’s defense is tight.
I’m rushed behind the net and lose possession on a pass I should’ve been able to make in my sleep.
The Arrows whip the puck up the side, heading straight for Novak. We do our best to run interference but, somewhere in the final minute, there’s a break and they snap one in on a rebound.
The blaring horn joins the wail of dashed hopes as the Ironhearts lose their spot in the playoffs.
Some of the guys are better at keeping a lid on their emotions than others as we strip out of our gear and throw on our gameday suits.
Theo, usually the goof, rips his gloves and launches them across the room.
No one reprimands him, not even Rohan, whose locked jaw only tightens as he yanks off his jersey.
Kubanski’s face is scrunched, like he’s holding back tears and me? I feel lost.
The short plane ride to Monterey is eerily muted. Coach Ross gave us a spiel about how proud she was of us, but none of the players were in the mood to hear it.
I certainly wasn’t.
I’d fucked up. My head hadn’t been fully in the game. Instead of focusing on strategy, the look on Alia’s face before she walked away had been running in a never-ending loop in my brain.
We played back-to-back games this week and I pushed through most of them in a daze, choosing to work myself to the point of exhaustion so I didn’t have to think about what I’d lost.
Today’s game required every bit of concentration and heart, but all of mine were hopelessly stuck on a woman who may no longer have it in her to show me any grace.
All because I behaved like an asshole instead of explaining my fears to her.
Now, instead of helping my team enter the playoffs, I’m returning home with my head a mess, my heart wrecked, and my sense of worth at an all-time low.
We’ll get another chance next season. We’ll learn from our mistakes, come back stronger, and play harder. I have to believe that, so I don’t succumb to the anger and frustration of my loss.
I picture the team heading into the playoffs and winning the Cup. It’s a visual that’s helped me focus on the final goal before.
I close my eyes, placing everyone’s faces as confetti rains upon us.
Novak being obnoxious and trying to steal the cup, Moore finally cracking a smile that threatens his reputation as a grump, Vega and the guys.
I see my parents beaming at me, Rory screaming until he’s red in the face. Still, the image is incomplete.
I know why.
Because the future in which I hold the cup is also the future where I look to the stands and see Alia cheering for me.
I want her right next to my family, jumping up and down with Rory and hugging Mom and Dad enthusiastically.
I want her to wear my jersey, beam with pride, and laugh when I pull her on the ice to rejoice in a milestone every NHL player dreams of.
That’s the future I want. Where I celebrate life with Alia beside me.
Doesn’t she deserve that kind of support, too?
My conscience pipes up uninvited. It’s been doing that since I made the mistake of letting Alia walk away.
Alia’s challenges after she lost the ability to play cricket professionally weren’t a mystery to me. Somewhere along the way, however, I forgot she was still working on achieving closure.
I forgot her loss. . . because it wasn’t mine. Admitting this to myself makes me wince, ashamed. Fuck, I really went hard on being a selfish dick. No wonder Alia ripped me a new one. An unhappy sigh slips out, making Theo side-eye me.
I ignore him, disinclined to admit to my friend how monumentally I fucked up. Theo shifts restlessly beside me, but even he isn’t in the mood to be chatty. Small mercies.
My head bumps the back of my seat as I stare out the window at the little slivers of clouds passing below us.
The lump in my throat grows more pronounced and my stomach churns uncomfortably.
It’s been days since our argument, and I haven’t heard from her.
I’ve picked up the phone to call her multiple times and chickened out.
While I’m assured another chance with hockey, I might not get one with Alia. And she matters more.
The simple truth is I’ve had eyes for no one else since meeting her.
Having random women approach me for no-strings-attached fun holds no appeal.
A life where Alia’s messages await me after an away game, where I can pick up the phone and talk to her any time I want, where I have the right to be with her, is the only sort of life I want anymore.
I have to do something to make up for treating her like crap over a choice she has every right to make for herself.
I glance over at Theo playing games on his phone. I’d ask him for advice, but he’s more of a fuckboy than I ever was. Speaking with Moore is out of the question: I’ll be dead before the plane lands. I don’t think making up with Alia from beyond the veil is what I want to do.
Vega. He’s the only guy I’m close enough with who is in a stable relationship. I slip out and head over to the front of the plane, dropping into the empty aisle seat next to him.
“Spuddy?” Mateo takes off his headphones when he sees me. I’d passed Moore two rows behind us with his hat drawn over his face, his breathing slow and even. I’m not worried about him overhearing us, but I keep my voice low anyway.
“Cap, I need advice.”
“About the game?”
“No. Something personal.”
Curiosity lights up his eyes, making me nervous but I don’t let it deter me.
“You love Emily, right? You’ve argued with her before?”
He blinks slowly, nose scrunching.
“You’re asking me if I love my wife of three years and have had disagreements with her?”
“Y-yeah?” I scratch the tip of my brow, shooting him a sheepish shrug. When I don’t offer more context, he grunts.
“Yes. So?”
“Say you ever had to pick between hockey and—”
“I’d pick Emily,” he says, before I even complete my question.
There is no doubt in his tone. “Here’s the thing,” he sighs.
“I love hockey. You kinda have to if you’re playing it professionally for as many years as we do.
But my life isn’t limited to the ice. I’m lucky Emily puts me first, but hockey is rough on our partners.
So, if there comes a time I need to choose, it’ll be the woman I’ve promised to spend my life with. ”
Simple fucking concept. I can’t believe it took messing up with Alia to get it through my thick head. If she stayed, she’d go through what other WAGs do. She’ll have to sacrifice time with me while I play hockey. Then why shouldn’t that expectation apply to me as well?
I don’t know if cricket has HABs, husbands-and-boyfriends, but they fuckin’ should. Because I’m about to be the best one they’ve ever seen.
“When you know you’ve fucked up, how do you usually make it better with her?”
Mateo stares at me like I’ve informed him I’m quitting the NHL to pursue figure skating instead.
“I’m asking for a friend,” I say immediately, when the look he levels me makes heat crawl up my cheeks.
“Alright, I’ll bite. One, apologize,” he advises, uncurling his index finger. “Two: Flowers are timeless.”
That’s easy enough. I make a mental note to pick up a bouquet as soon as we land. Hell, I’ll buy her an entire shop with daily flower deliveries if that lessens her anger and gives me a chance to change her mind about us.
“Three: Accepting you—I mean—your friend fucked up,” Mateo rolls his eyes while unfolding a third finger, “is non-negotiable. I know the concept eludes us, but use words. Talk. Apologize again. Profusely. It has to be heartfelt. It’s scary as fuck, but they know when you’re not being sincere and it’ll be the death blow you never saw coming.
Can’t bullshit an apology because women always know. Wait—it’s a woman?”
“It’s a woman,” I confirm.
He nods, continuing without a break. “When she’s receptive, aim for physical touch. Make-up sex is in a league of its own. But the most important thing?” he says, pausing for emphasis. “Grovel.”