2. Crosby
Chapter 2
Crosby
T he ice cuts away perfectly from my skate as I slide toward the center line. It’s loud in the arena tonight, the state high school finals enticing a big crowd. This rivalry also brings out the rowdiest supporters for both teams, with the tension thickening in the dry air. As I brace down toward the center face-off circle, I suck in a deep breath, blocking out the increasing noise until there is only a pleasant thrum of anticipation. I can hear my heartbeat pulsing in my ears instead as I pinch my eyes shut, laying my stick across the tops of my knees.
There’s a spray of ice against my pads as my opponent settles into place across from me. I open my eyes to calmly look through the plastic of the visor portion of my bubble mask at him. He’s shorter than me, more obviously so as he crouches into position, tapping his stick lightly against the circle. As I study his face, there’s a drop of sweat working down his temple and a small twitch at the corner of his eye. This kid is nervous.
I set the blade of my stick on the red circle, purposefully not tapping at his. He flicks his eyes down to the ice, and when he looks back up, I wink.
As his eyes widen, the ref blows the whistle, and the puck drops to the ice.
Whatever thoughts I’ve been stuck on all day—Dad not being at this game, the upcoming draft, the familiar doubt of not being good enough—fade away with the singular slice of my stick along the ice.
Game on.
I know how early it is without opening my eyes because the six a.m. alarm is crying out an insipid repeating melody from its perch on my nightstand. I would groan against it, interrupting my sleep during the off-season, but dreaming of that night isn’t something I want to return to.
Instead, I roll carefully to the right, press the button to turn it off, and sit up, stretching my arms over my head and move my neck around slowly. After a shit night of sleep, I’m actually looking forward to my morning run, hopeful it will clear my head of bad memories and give me focus before I hop on a call with Coach in a couple of hours.
Without much thought, I fall into my morning routine: a nice long shower, followed by a stretch. I’m pulling on athletic shorts and a shirt, tucking a pair of socks under my arm, and slipping my phone in my pocket while heading downstairs. In the kitchen, I lift the remote and turn the television on, clicking until it lands on the NHL channel.
“The Midnight have confirmed they will not be seeking the option to keep Alex Bridger for the remainder of his contract.”
My eyes fly to the screen across the open-concept kitchen/living room where the anchor sits behind a desk delivering the kind of news that will change my life. I awkwardly pull on the sock I’m wrestling with before leaning my elbows against the counter.
“ It appears the decision was originally discussed at the conclusion of The Midnight’s season, which ended in a disappointing elimination in the second round of playoffs but only confirmed this week. Midnight front office staff, players, and Alex Bridger himself have kept the news quiet as it appears Bridger is now enacting a failsafe clause in his contract. With more details on what this clause is, how it impacts the team, and how The Midnight will be moving forward, we go to Tara Upton. Tara?”
“Thanks, Dave.” The blonde woman on the television I vaguely recall talking to once or twice gives a flat smile before speaking again. “There’s been no official statement released from the New Haven Midnight front office, but we do have confirmation owner Todd Montgomery is due to sit down with head coach Callum Andrews later this morning, in what we can only imagine is the first of many strategy sessions.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and push the side button, declining the call from my best friend. He’ll get over it.
I set the phone on the counter and lean my elbows across it, paying closer attention to the screen as Tara continues her report.
“ The release of starting center Alex Bridger is a surprise move but maybe not a fully unexpected one. In the two seasons Bridger played for New Haven, his numbers faced steady decline while his penalty minutes rose. The frustration between Bridger’s performance, the team, and Coach Andrews was palpable at times throughout this postseason. Bridger was even benched halfway through The Midnight’s series against Columbus, replaced by Crosby Wells.”
My phone buzzes against the top of the granite with another incoming call, and while part of me wants to continue watching the report now that I’ve been mentioned, I can’t decline when Coach Andrews’ name flashes across the screen.
I turn off the television and answer before the next ring.
“Hello, Coach.”
“Ah shit, you’ve seen it, huh?” Coach Andrews’ voice is strained, and he gives a heavy exhale. “Fuck, Wells. That wasn’t how you were supposed to find out.”
“Not exactly sure what I’m finding out, Coach, but I’m guessing we’re having our meeting now and not later.” I lean back against the counter for a moment. “Bridger made it pretty clear to all of us after the last game that it would be unlikely he’d stay in a black jersey for another season. And now that he’s gone, I can say freely how much I won’t fucking miss him.”
Coach gives a halfhearted laugh before he sounds serious. “Yeah, well, maybe it was never his color.”
I wait, crossing to the fridge for a bottle of water. It’s not until after I open it and take a drink that Coach continues, “There’s a lot to work out with how Bridger’s departure is going to impact the team. At least on the front office side of things. Thank God we managed to sign Obadiah James before this shit show and have a little cap space to try and make it work. But it is going to take some creative financial strategy to make sure The Midnight will be in a place to keep acquiring the kind of players we need. Fucking hate dealing with salary cap shit.” Coach sounds like he always does when it comes to the management side of the organization: annoyed. If Callum Andrews could coach our team without ever having to talk to a single person in the front office, I think he’d be the happiest man on the planet. He lives and breathes for what happens on the ice. I respect the hell out of him in more ways than one. “Anyway, Wells, I’m putting you on the first line. Permanently.”
The sound drops out from my ears for a moment. I’m putting you on the first line. Permanently.
It’s everything I’ve worked for my whole career. I swallow around the feelings Coach’s announcement stirs in me. I’ll pick them apart later.
“Yes, sir,” I manage.
“Crosby,” Coach’s voice feels warm through the phone. It’s the tone I imagine he uses as a father. It always causes an ache in my chest to ease slightly when he talks to me this way. “I wouldn’t have given you the spot if I wasn’t one hundred percent confident it’s your time. I’d have put you on first line two years ago if I could have. You can do this.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I sound choked up rather than confident. I grunt to clear the emotion. “I’ll make sure to live up to the opportunity.”
“I know you will.” Coach sighs again. “Gotta run. Time to go deal with the rest of it. See you soon.”
Silence sits against my ear. Coach hung up before I could say goodbye, which isn’t rude, just his efficient style. I put the phone on the counter where it immediately starts buzzing. THE RUBBER PUCKIES group chat icon—a rubber duck outfitted like a hockey player—fills the screen, individual messages popping up underneath.
Tex
Wellsy. Answer the damn phone.
Henri “Tex” Texier. Left wing. Team Captain. Despite his nickname, Tex is originally from Canada. He’s a stoic but fierce leader. Endlessly supportive and the oldest veteran on the team. He’s in his mid-thirties but makes rookies look like children learning to skate on the ice. I’m convinced it’s some weird French-Canadian magic that lets him play so well at this point. Or maybe it’s because he’s the only one of us who’s married. I don’t have any evidence that says marital status impacts player performance, but I think Tex could be the test case.
Nicky
Yes. Answer.
Nikita “Nicky” Baladin. Twenty-three. “The Baladin Wall” as he’s called by our fans. One of the best goalies in the league. Nicky was only called up from the Hartford AHL team last season. Why he had been stuck in the minors for so long is beyond me. The six-foot-six Russian beast lives up to his nickname; he nearly blocks out the net when he settles into position. His four-year-old daughter, Natalia, is tougher on us than our coach, but we love her as much as we do her dad.
Bones
Wellsy, we just want to check in after seeing the news.
Charlie “Bones” Kane. Right wing. Nicknamed for his surgical precision to get the puck past an opponent’s goalie. He’s twenty-one. Strong and silent. But Bones will give you some of the most profound life advice you’ve ever heard—once he warms up to you. Despite his age, Bones is easily the most dependable member on our line on the ice. His skills are almost once-in-a-generation.
Tex
And Gus is driving us nuts.
Gus
Pardon the fuck out of me for caring.
Augustus “Gus” Kelly is my best friend. Twenty-six. He reminds me of a golden retriever puppy that seeks out a person when he feels like he isn’t being given enough attention. Which might be why he’s such a brutal defenseman: he never wants anyone to forget he’s there. We’re the same age, but The Midnight is Gus’ third team in eight seasons. He never fully gelled with the other teams since his draft at eighteen, but we’ve played together since I came here three years ago.
I quickly check my phone and see two missed calls and eight texts from him. I shake my head before tapping out a response.
Me
I’m alive. Just got off the phone with Coach. Thanks for checking in.
Gus
What did Coach have to say?
Tex
He might not be able to answer that. You know how management is.
Gus
But Coach isn’t management. He’s COACH.
Me
He’s putting me on first line.
Bones
About time. We all know you would have been on it earlier if Bridger hadn’t been signed.
Me
Anyone have Obadiah James’ number? It’s probably about time we add him.
I change topics. If there is any surprise at the news of our new defenseman, it doesn’t make it across the screen.
Tex
Taken care of. Say hello to Obadiah. Obadiah, this is everyone.
Unknown Number
Obie is fine. Happy to be here.
I send off a short hello and announce I’m headed to work out. I was originally looking forward to my run this morning, but now I’m eager to hit the pavement and let the monotony of it clear my head. The messages continue to buzz through, but I ignore them as I prepare to leave. I’ll catch up later.
The shock of the cold water sucks the breath from me. Cold showers are a brutal necessity of training; they lower inflammation, boost immunity, and help with pain and muscle fatigue. At least that’s what the team trainers say, but they don’t have to endure the needle-like stings from the showerhead as I stand under the spray. Without the option for an ice bath, this is the best substitute. I grit my teeth and breathe heavily when I hear the timer go off on my counter. Ten minutes never feels as long as it does during this part of my post-workout routine.
Switching the shower off, I grab the towel off the side hook and run it briefly through my brunette hair, the curls springing a little, before running it down my chest for a quick dry. I settle it around my hips as I pick up my phone and shut off the tinny version of a generic ringtone that’s acting as the timer.
Gus
What are you doing right now?
The text pops up while I’m still holding the phone.
Me
Just cleaned up after a workout.
Gus
You’re coming out with us tonight, right?
I switch back to the message app home screen to review the collection of missed messages in THE RUBBER PUCKIES. Sounds like the guys decided there is no time like the present to introduce Obie to the rest of the group, setting up drinks at Lowry’s, our favorite haunt. The little bar has two pool tables, low lights, and cracked leather booths that surround an open spot that the tipsy use for dancing to the jukebox. Morgan, the owner, pours heavy and is unimpressed when professional hockey players descend on the place. It’s become our favorite spot.
I don’t really feel like going out. I’m still adjusting to how I feel about this morning’s news. It’s moments like this that make me wish my dad was still here. I would call him, and I’d hear how proud he is of me. That to be seen as the first choice is everything I’ve worked hard for. To be trusted to lead the team on the ice even if I don’t have a capital C on my chest.
Gus
C’mon, Wellsy. If you don’t show up, I’ll drag you. You’re going to end up in your head about this if you don’t just celebrate it.
Gus knows me too well.
Me
Yeah, all right. I’ll be there. But the new guy better be buying the first round.
Gus
He’s been informed. Especially since he already said he could be late.
Gus’ message includes that disapproving face emoji at the end. I set the phone down to finish drying off, chuckling to myself. Gus is a great guy, happy and easygoing, but punctuality is something he takes very seriously. I’ve never been able to figure out why, but it’s part of the reason I don’t mind when we have to room together sometimes on road trips. We’re never late for meetings or the bus.
Me
Give the guy a break. He just uprooted his life to come play here.
Gus likes the message, and the conversation ends. I head to my closet to pull out a pair of jeans and a navy blue tee. It’s late summer and warm, but it’s air-conditioned in Lowry’s, so this will be fine. I slip my phone back into my pocket and head back toward my kitchen to put together some food.
I touch my fingers gently along the framed photograph in the entryway, tapping three times on the image of my dad.