7. Ace
SEVEN
ACE
It was 5:45 and the subway trains were already starting to get busy. At that time of day, it was all the hoity-toity business people dressed in their black and gray peacoats, marching onto the underground line after riding in from the suburbs on the Go Train. Like a salmon swimming upstream, I wove through the river of wool to find an empty seat on the train.
Earlier that year, I had been photographed on the subway, and for some reason, it had become a news item—a hockey star going to and from the games on public transportation. For me, it just made sense. I drove a giant vintage truck that didn’t fit in most parking garages, and it was faster for me to hop on the subway than to get a cab.
A few men gave me a second look, recognition flashing across their faces, but they were either too cool for school, or respectful of my privacy, to actually approach me. If I’d been on the train a little later, with normal people, not the type-A business crowd, fans would’ve definitely approached me. I settled into one of the red velour seats and scrolled through my phone, trying to decide whether to listen to a podcast, or blare some pre-practice tunes into my headphones.
I wasn’t exactly hungover, but I didn’t feel top notch either. Deciding to ease into the day, I clicked on a podcast called the Sin Bin. It was two retired players who interviewed guests about hockey. Closing my eyes, I crossed my arms and let the deep voices of a couple of legends fill my head. They were discussing all the fancy trick shots the young players were practicing. To me, the shots seemed gimmicky. I didn’t always agree with Jake McManus, one of the co-hosts, but on the subject of the fancy pants trick shots, I did. They were unnecessary, and players should spend more time focusing on the classics: drills, slap shots, wrap-arounds, wristies… I chuckled. Together, the classics sounded more like bedroom moves. I shook my head at my immaturity, and opened my eyes to an almost empty train. The Eglinton station signs flashed by on the tiled walls.
“Fuck.” I launched to my feet. Somewhere between Jake and his guest Andy talking about the Michigan shot, I had drifted off to sleep and missed my stop. Sprinting out of the train, I took the stairs three at a time, emerging into the darkness of the streets of Midtown. After I dodged a few cars, I was able to get on the train going in the other direction.
Before I missed my stop, I had a chance at getting to practice on time, but now there was no way I could get there before Coach Swanson started screaming.
“Where’s Banksy?” I skidded to a stop next to Holmes. He was leaning on the boards like they were the only thing holding him up. “He’s not here. Coach is trying to kill us. I’m convinced of it.”
“You look green.”
Beneath the plastic shield, the whites of Mike’s eyes were practically the same color as the centre line running beneath our skates. “I’ve already barfed.” He burped as he said the word and I glided away from the potential splash zone.
He held up his gloved hand. “Don’t worry, I don’t think there’s anything left in there. Ethan hasn’t shown up either. I texted him, but he didn’t answer.”
When a puck ricochets off the boards, it sounds like a gunshot. Usually, I loved the sound and it got me pumped up, but today I just couldn’t fake it. I was tired, but at least next to Mikey, I looked like an all-star.
Gideon kept his distance. Some of the other players shot me dirty looks, but he didn’t even look at me. My brother kept his cold gaze where it belonged: on the ice ahead of him. His talent shone, even through his shitty attitude. Although, he likely wasn’t hungover and had gotten more than three hours of sleep.
Coach was using the stupid parachute things that I hated. It was the same concept as the things that slowed down drag racing cars, only instead of bumpers, the parachutes were attached to us. They created drag to slow us down. Well, everyone but Gideon. The light fabric flapped as he charged down the ice to launch a scorching hot slap shot from the blue line. The water bottles that were sitting on top of the net clattered onto the ice.
Connor, one of the defensemen, inhaled in appreciation.
“That,” Coach shouted and pointed to the bottles as they settled next to the boards. “That’s what we have in our arsenal. If you can get your heads out of your asses and pass the puck to number eight, we could starting getting the W.
The W was a young man’s short form for win. I smirked. Coach was young, but he wasn’t that young.
“Is something funny, Bailey?” he shouted.
Gideon had looped around the net and pointed to his chest with the end of his stick.
“Not you.” Coach skated to where Mike and I had posted up against the boards. He skidded to a stop, spraying snow onto our skates, a bit of a dick move if you ask me. He fanned his face with his glove. “It smells like a brewery over here.”
“Well, it is just over there.” Mike pointed in the direction of the Steamwhistle brewery, which was just a few blocks away.
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Holmes.” Coach Swanson was frustrated, and I couldn’t blame him. I usually loved everything about hockey, even practice, even the stupid parachutes, but lately, I hated it all. It was like the wind had been taken out of those gimmicky sails. I didn’t think that I was the only one who felt that way. “You two, run the play that Jamie has on the board.” He blew the whistle and Mike and I skated into position.
As expected, Mike missed the pass, but it wasn’t his fault. I was slower than usual.
“Again,” Coach shouted. The rest of the team lined up against the boards to watch, analyzing every stroke. We flubbed the play again.
“One more time.”
I took a big breath, knowing that we were going to be running the drill until we got it right, or qualified for an old folks’ home, whatever came first.
We started the play, but to my surprise, Coach blew the whistle while my stick was mid shot. Instead of taking it, I completely abandoned the play.
“He never finishes anything.” Gideon’s voice was low, but everyone on the team heard it.
Hope flooded through my body. Gideon usually ignored me. Was this a step in the right direction? Or had we slipped one degree further apart? I didn’t know what was worse, being ignored, or being criticized.
Coach pointed at me. “Run it again. Bailey, take right wing. The rest of you, practice is over.”
Confused, I skated to the right side of the ice. I’m a left-winger, but I obeyed his orders.
“Not you, Bailey.”
Over my shoulder, Coach directed Gideon to the right-wing position.
My morning had gone from bad to worse. He was going to make me run the drill with Gideon. “Sorry, Coach. I heard Bailey.”
Coach rubbed his chin. “I can see how that would confuse you. From now on, you’re Ace.” He pointed to the far side of the ice. “Bailey, get into position.”
Gideon got to keep the Bailey name. I took a deep breath. My brother and I had been practicing drills since we could walk. From playing with mini-sticks in the hallway of our country bungalow, to playfully body-checking each other into the snowbanks of our community’s backyard rink, there was no other player that I knew better. Since our falling out, I hadn’t done any one-on-one work with him. We’d been on separate teams, and were rarely on the ice at the same time, that is, until we were traded to the Tigers.
The whistle sounded. The arena went silent except for the sound of my skates cutting through the ice. The ruts Holmes and I had created with our multiple attempts seemed to melt into a clean sheet. Out of the corner of my eye, the flash of orange told me that Gideon was exactly where he needed to be. I knew how he accepted the puck, and he knew how I hit it. We executed the play like we had written the damn thing—perfectly.
Our paths crossed behind the net, but I kept my gaze focused on one of the advertisements deep in the corner, hoping that he didn’t see the tears in my eyes.
We both came to a stop on either side of Coach Swanson. He glided backwards and gave a satisfied nod. “That was beautiful.”
Gideon grunted and I shrugged.
“You two need to sort out your shit. This team is like a ship, and you two are fucking cannons, blowing holes in its hull.”
“Are you calling the team a sinking ship?” Gideon’s voice was low.
“I am.” Coach turned to face my brother. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“That’s usually the captain’s fault.” The captain of the team was Harrison Banks, but we both knew that Gideon wasn’t referring to that captain.
Gideon’s blatant criticism seemed to catch both Coach and me off guard. He was the strong, silent type. Coach looked like he’d been slapped. Redness traveled from the collar of his jacket all the way up to his ears. “Bailey, as the captain of this sinking ship, I’m pulling you from the lineup on Saturday.”
“Wait. What?” Gideon had been resting his chin on the knob of his hockey stick. “You just said that it’s time for the team to sink or swim, or sail, or whatever the fuck metaphor you used.”
“It is.” Coach skated away.
The door to the home team’s bench clattered as Coach disappeared, leaving Gideon and me alone for the first time in months.
“Did that just happen?” I spoke, more to myself than to Gideon, staring at the spot where Coach had left the ice. “What is he doing?”
Even though we were losing, Gideon led the team in scoring, and not just by a little. He was also a cornerstone in most of the plays.
I hadn’t expected Gideon to reply, and he didn’t. He took off his helmet and skated away. Then he did something I’d never seen him do. He sat on the bench and held his face in his gloves. Skating slowly toward the bench, I felt like I was watching a movie—one where I didn’t recognize the star. “Are you all right?” Was Gideon crying?
The door to the bench creaked as I stepped through it and onto the rubberized flooring.
Gideon looked up and his icy eyes met mine. His completely dry eyes. As much as I wanted to see my robot brother get upset about something, the thought of tears in his eyes was unnerving.
“I’m fine.” He squinted. “It’s these damn headaches.”
I grabbed one of the water bottles and handed it to him. “You’re probably dehydrated.”
He shook his head and smacked the bottle out of my hand. “I’m not the one who was out drinking all night. Save the electrolytes for your sorry ass.”
I bit my lip so hard it seared with pain. I took a step away, but then stopped. “No.” I had apologized to Gideon for something that I didn’t do, and he had spent the last year being a dick to me. I was done. “Coach is right. You’re like mold on a ship.”
“What?” His dark brow shifted into a v-shaped anger wrinkle.
“I mean, your shitty attitude is poisoning this team. Get over yourself.”
For a big guy, Gideon was lighting fast on the ice, but he was even faster on land. His fist crunched into my jaw so fast I hadn’t even registered the fact that he’d dropped his gloves. Totally unprepared for the punch, I staggered backwards and stepped on a water bottle. I crashed to the ground, my body saved by my protective padding.
Gideon flew from the bench and landed on me. He straddled my body with his knees on either side of me. His arm reared high above his head for a punch. On the ground with my arms pinned, I was helpless and winced, waiting for the strike.
When it didn’t come, I cracked open an eye. Mikey was pulling Gideon off of me.
“What is going on?” Mikey shouted.
Gideon’s eyes flashed and his nostrils flared. I knew my brother’s fight faces, and this was one of his scariest. “Stay out of it, Holmes. It’s just brother stuff.”
Holmes stepped between me and Gideon. I tucked my glove under my arm and touched my lip, not surprised to see blood on my fingertips. “It’s not just brother stuff when it affects everyone else out here. We know the truth, Ace. Tell him what you told us.”
“You told them?” Gideon scoffed. “What fictional version did you feed these guys?”
I squared my shoulders and tried to remember whether fiction meant fake or real. “The true kind, Giddy.” His childhood nickname slipped out. “I told them the truth.”
Gideon stretched his hand a couple of times. He had hit me so hard I was surprised that he could still move it. “The truth?” He balled his hand into a fist and I instinctively took a step back. “The only truth here is that Ace Bailey is a liar.” He shook his hand and disappeared into the darkness of the dressing room hallway.
“You all right, Acer?” Mikey handed me one of the team towels that was sitting on the bench. “You’re going to need to get some ice on that shiner.” I pressed the towel to my face and pain shot from my eye socket. Gideon’s punch had landed on my jaw, but had been so powerful I was definitely going to have the worst black eye of my life, well the second worst. I was pretty sure that he hit me harder the first time.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ve never seen him so… I was going to say angry, but that’s the first time I’ve seen him so…anything.” Mikey stared at the tunnel where Gideon had disappeared. “Are you coming to the dressing room?”
I sat on the bench and shook my aching head. “I’m going to wait out here a minute. “Coach cut him from the game on Saturday.”
“Oh fuck. Yeah, wait out here a few minutes. I’ll tell you when the coast is clear.” Mikey rested his hand on my shoulder, patted it, and then left.
The ice was torn up, but if I squinted, I could see the exact grooves left from our blades. If we could get it together, the two of us would be unstoppable. Coach was right—Gideon was sinking, and I was attached. I needed to cut myself free, or he would drag me down to the bottom with him.