4. Crosby
Chapter 4
Crosby
Gus
I’m outside.
Me
On my way. You could always ring the doorbell.
Gus
Absolutely not. That’s awkward as fuck.
“ W hat’s awkward about ringing the doorbell?” I climb into the passenger side of Gus’ Silverado.
“I have to wait for you to answer it. What if you don’t hear it? Then I just stand out there even longer? Or worse, ring it again?” Gus pulls smoothly off the curb with the twilight orange of the evening light bleeding briefly through the townhomes of the neighborhood.
I roll my window down a little more; the late August air is more humid than cool, but it feels good blowing through the cab.
“If you would just give me a key, I wouldn’t have to feel so awkward about the doorbell, and I wouldn’t be treated like an Uber when I come to pick you up.”
“Gus, you’re my best friend. I trust you with my life.” He sits a little straighter in his seat, puffing his chest out unnecessarily. I grin broadly. “But I don’t want to wake up one night with you standing over me asking where I hid the last slice of pie. Again.”
Gus turns with his mouth gaping.
“You wound me. You agreed to never talk about that again. The one—and only—time I sleepwalked, and you hold it against me for the rest of my life.” Gus shakes his head before focusing back on the road. “Some best friend.”
Two years ago, Gus was run against the boards in a hard game against Cincinnati, resulting in a mild neck injury. The road doc gave him some stronger-than-usual painkillers to help take the edge off and get him to sleep. As it turned out, Gus was one of the few who fell into the rare side effect category of developing lucid dreaming while taking them. We were sharing a room on that stretch of road games, and I woke up two nights later to Gus standing next to my bed, demanding I tell him where the last piece of chocolate peanut butter pie was.
It’s still funny as hell, and I love reminding him it happened.
“Lighten up.” I laugh. “You drowned your sorrows in the peanut butter cups I had in my bag, and we’re the only ones who even know it happened.”
“Doesn’t mean you need to bring it up,” Gus grumps. We pass a few minutes with just the sound of Post Malone filling the truck. “So, uh, how are you doing? You know, with everything?”
I’ve spent all day thinking about how this season is going to be unlike all of my previous years in the league. I wasn’t drafted into the NHL until I was almost twenty. I spent my first two seasons in the minors for Austin, working hard to get called up. When I finally joined the Rampage, I thought I was set. I wasn’t on first line, but I was always suited up and saw a fair amount of play. It lasted two years. Then I was traded to New Haven, and I’ve been waiting for my shot.
Now I have it. According to Coach, I should have had it two years ago, but I’m getting it now, and it feels good. Mostly. It’s hard to tell when my success is wrapped up in an emptiness that’s never fully gone away. The person who should be sharing this with me, who would be happiest for me, died when I was eighteen.
“I know what I’m supposed to feel, but that’s not what I actually feel,” I reply, turning my face to the window for a moment.
Gus knows about my dad and the accident that killed him. How I became an adult orphan in the final months of high school. How I was so consumed in my grief that I missed my draft slot that year. How I was forced to accept the full-ride scholarship I had at the University of Michigan just to work my way back to the opportunity.
I trained hard and took my guidance counselor’s advice to seek a therapist. With the support of my coaches and teammates, I worked as many hours on my mental health as my physical. I spent hours processing the grief of losing my dad. The anger and guilt I harbored about our final moments and the irrational belief hockey somehow was a part of the blame. The journey hasn’t always been linear; there have been emotional highs and lows, but I make sure to have a few standing appointments with my therapist throughout the year to check-in. Sometimes, there is still sadness, but often it’s just longing. A desire to share these career milestones with the man who was my biggest supporter.
“It probably won’t make it better, and I could be talking out of turn here, but I think your dad would be really happy for you.” I cut my eyes to Gus. He’s offering me a crooked, hesitant smile. I know he can’t fully understand how it feels to lose a parent so suddenly, but he tries, and hearing what I know to be true in my heart is helpful. My dad would be happy for me. Proud. I nod quickly in answer.
“Plus, you’re a hell of a lot better than Bridger ever was. Should have been on the line before now. That guy’s best days are behind him.”
“That’s what Coach said. Not the best days part, just that I should have been on the line sooner.”
“No shit?” Gus pulls into the cracked asphalt lot next to the nondescript building with a faded sign above it that says DRINKS . “Well, Coach knows better than anyone else.”
With the truck in park and our conversation wrapped up, I close the passenger door and head to the entrance of Lowry’s. Scanning the partially filled lot, I spot Bones’ sleek Jaguar parked next to Nicky's practical BMW X7. I don’t see Tex’s red Mercedes, but he could have ridden with one of the others because I know our captain is here. My eyes also coast over a black Land Rover near the door. Like the rest of our vehicles, it feels a little out of place for Lowry’s usual crowd, leading me to think it belongs to our newest defenseman. The California plates are also a dead giveaway.
“Looks like the new guy isn’t late.” I gesture to the car as Gus and I pass. Gus looks and nods.
“Point in his favor, then.” Gus pulls open the door where a single sign displays the hours of operation. There’s no open/closed sign. If it’s between the hours shown, the door will be unlocked.
Inside, the place is pretty empty. It makes spotting our team easy; they’re the only group clustered around a table just off the back of the bar. A few solo evening regulars are settled in their favorite corners, working on whatever their usual drink is. Morgan gives Gus and me a nod as the door closes behind us.
“Hey, Morg,” Gus calls as we walk toward our gathering. “Can I get Johnnie Blue, neat? Two fingers pour, yeah?”
“You can have light or dark, pretty boy. You know the rules.” Morgan pulls a pint glass from the rack. There’s nothing fancy about Lowry’s. No liquor that costs more than an average paycheck, and the beer comes in a light color or dark. We are never told what’s on tap, just that it’s cold, and Morgan knows how to pull his pints full.
“A pitcher of whatever the majority is drinking. And it goes on the new guy’s bill.” Gus taps a knuckle on the bar top in thanks. I offer a smile at Morgan as I pass.
“Thought you liked people being on time, Gus!” Tex’s voice calls from behind Nicky as we step up to the group.
“We are on time,” I reply, double-checking my watch. Tex laughs.
“Looks like all these years of being an asshole about the function of a clock has finally sunk in.” Gus pops himself atop a stool, glaring at our teammates before he settles on the face of Obadiah James. “And this guy won’t be half bad if he’s already figured it out, too.”
Morgan arrives with the pitcher and two empty pints. The ale is light, as it appears all but Bones have opted for it tonight. I pour our glasses, careful to angle it so there isn’t too much head on the beer.
“Obadiah, but everyone can call me ‘Obie.’” I lift my eyes to see Gus shaking hands with the black-haired defenseman.
“Crosby.” I lift my chin in greeting, then pass Gus his drink.
“Top off, boys,” Tex instructs. Nicky takes the pitcher, pouring to ensure everyone has a full pint again. Everyone except Bones, but Morgan shows back up with another glass of the stout, swapping it for his nearly empty glass. “All right,” Tex begins again when we all have a drink in hand. “This marks the beginning of the best season we’ve ever played. Wellsy is on the line where he belongs, and our new guy already knows better than to fuck up, right?”
He cuts his eyes to Obie, who gives a little salute of acknowledgment. Tex nods back. “Drink up, Midnight. Rise!”
We tap the bottoms of our glasses and pull long drinks from them, the familiar chant from our fans drowned by hops and barely distinguishable citrus. It feels good to be with my team, and the unease I’ve wrestled with all day starts to fade into the background as I fold myself into a seat. Maybe I should have had my chance at the starting six before now, but as I scan the faces of men I’ve known for years and the relaxed smile of my newest teammate, I’m suddenly happy it’s only happening now. There’s a little tingle in the air around our group. The stirrings of… something. I think my dad would say it’s potential.
“Why do we say ‘rise?’” Nicky asks. He stretches his long legs behind my stool. I’m bunched uncomfortably under this high top, knees almost knocking the underside, but Nicky has three inches on me.
“Someone in the front office must have thought it sounded cool,” Tex answers, shifting our attention toward the pool table. I happily stand to follow. “Which it fucking does. Especially from a sold-out crowd.”
I pull a few cues off the wall, handing them out as Bones collects and racks the balls. We divide ourselves into pairs: Tex and Bones, Gus and Obie, and I stand next to Nicky. We silently step back to let the others play the first round.
“There’s actually a local urban legend that inspired the saying,” Obie speaks up. Gus and Bones are playing the fastest game of rock paper scissors to see who will break. Gus slams his fist atop Bone’s scissor fingers to win. He leans over the table and draws back his cue.
“It’s also why the team is named The Midnight,” Obie continues. The decisive crack of the pool balls bouncing against each other as they scatter punctuates Obie’s words.
“How do you know?” Gus asks. He’s giving a smirk to our new teammate. I know he would never intentionally make someone feel unwelcome, but Gus isn’t above a little teasing to see if personalities settle well. Bridger couldn’t tell the difference, so he quickly stopped hanging out with us. “Googling shit to get in good with the new team, Rook?”
“He’s not a rookie, Gus,” I correct. I have a good feeling about Obie being on the team. And maybe, now that I finally have my starting spot, I want to do a little more for the camaraderie of the team.
“He’s still new here ,” Gus replies, unbothered, slapping Obie on the shoulder before the defenseman leans over the felt top to line up a shot.
“I know because I grew up here,” Obie says, knocking a solid into the corner pocket.
“No shit?” Gus leans on his cue.
“No shit.”
“So, what’s the story, then?” I ask as the game resumes. I think knowing the history behind the team would be good. I’m sure it was probably in my player’s handbook and introduction when I signed, but I admit to not reading it. For the most part, every team in the NHL has the same rules: play well on the ice, contribute to the club, and manage your money and your behavior off the ice. I’ve always tried to do those things, but a little extra knowledge won’t hurt. I don’t make a habit of staying in New Haven for long periods of time during the off-season. I prefer heading to my dad’s old cabin in Maine.
“There’s a grave in Evergreen Cemetery for Mary Hart. She died in the 1800s—don’t really know how, just that it was around noon, but she wasn’t pronounced dead until midnight. The family interred her quickly after that.” Obie levels us all assessing looks to see if we’re paying attention. Tex is taking his shot, but I can tell he’s listening from how his head is cocked. “Anyway, the legend part is that Mary’s aunt dreamed of Mary calling to her from the grave, asking for help. They say the family became concerned, exhumed the casket, and found the inside torn to shreds. Mary’s fingers were bloody from trying to claw out. Now, the ghost of Midnight Mary haunts the cemetery and that area of New Haven.”
We all stand there in various states of shock by Obie’s story.
“And we’re named after this ghost story?” Gus looks gobsmacked. Obie shrugs. I stifle a laugh behind my hand and check on Nicky. The Russian’s usual stoicism cracks as Gus’ voice gets a little squeaky as he pushes on. “It’s so dark and twisted. That’s—that’s fucking demented .”
Tex and Bones are laughing outright at our teammate’s distress. I walk over to my spooked best friend.
“You okay, bud?” I take the cue from his flapping hands, passing it to Bones. “It’s just a story. But I think it makes us sound kind of cool.”
“Oh yeah, ‘cool.’” Gus rolls his eyes. “You know, most teams are named after an animal or something badass.”
“The only real animals around here are wild turkeys and deer,” Obie supplies. The guys are putting up their cues and walking back to the high top. “I guess being named after Bambi wouldn’t be so bad, but that story is just sad.”
“I think I like being named after the ghost better. Definitely more badass than a turkey.” I steer Gus back to the table, passing him his drink. He sips and breaks off to talk to Bones. I laugh at his grumbling, hitching a thumb at him when I speak directly to Obie, “Ignore him. He’ll never admit to being scared easily, but he asks me to check his room before bed when we go on road trips and he’s alone in his room.”
“I heard that, asshole,” Gus calls back over his shoulder.
“You were meant to.” I laugh even harder. It feels good to be out with my friends tonight. I spent too much of the day wrapped up in my thoughts. The concern that I might not be good enough to have a permanent starting spot loops back through my head. I push the thought away; these guys have my back, and Coach wouldn’t have given it to me if he didn’t think I could do it.
Obie sits next to me, and his light laughter brings me back to our conversation.
“That story taught in school or something when you were a kid?”
“Nah.” Obie pulls a sip from his amber ale. “My dad and uncle loved all sorts of things like that when I was little. They’d tell me and my best friend all kinds of weird and wacky stories when we’d have sleepovers and stuff.”
“My dad knew a few of the local urban legends back home. My pee-wee team loved having sleepovers at my house after games to hear them.” I press my lips together. I’m not sure why I’m offering up anecdotes about my dad. Probably because he’s been on my mind today. To avoid further discussion, I press forward, changing topics. “So, you grew up here. Must be nice to be playing at home.”
“It will be,” Obie says. I finish off my pint with a large swig. “My best friend also recently moved back.”
“That’s cool.” I watch Obie check his phone and frown for a second. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He slides the device back into his pocket. “I was hoping she’d come out tonight, but she can’t make it.”
“Who can’t make it? Your girl?” Tex asks, cluing back in on the conversation. He picks up the half-full pitcher and tops off his pint. I wave him away when he offers it to me.
“Who has a girl?” Gus leans in, eyes wide, curiosity sparkling, and all traces of fear gone. “Rook?”
“I’m not getting away from that nickname, am I?” Obie glances at me. I shake my head.
“Not likely. But it could be worse.”
“Definitely could.”
“Tell us about your girl.” Gus bounces slightly on the balls of his feet.
“She’s not my girl. Just my best friend. Since we both just moved back to town, I thought she’d want to come hang out, but she let me know she can’t make it.”
“All right!” Gus whoops. “Another wingman. Always looking for someone else to pick up girls with. The only one here who has a girl is Tex.”
“Speaking of which, I should grab an Uber home.” Tex drinks the last of his beer. “Pre-season only lasts so long, then it’s back to late nights and FaceTime with the missus.”
“I can still drive you home. I’m ready to head out for the night,” Bones speaks up, the bass timbre of his voice strong in the quiet space. His second stout pint is only a quarter down, and I know he wouldn’t offer if he was drunk. Tex nods before tipping his fingers at his brow in a goodbye salute.
“I should go, too.” Nicky is texting furiously on his phone. He looks up, a small scowl on his face. “Babysitter problems.”
“Sorry, man.” I pat the big guy on the back. “Give Natalia a hug from all of us.”
When our goalie has departed, Morgan comes by to clear glassware. None of us order another drink.
“Tell us about this girl best friend of yours,” Gus starts. I roll my eyes. “Is she cute? Do I get to meet her?”
Obie takes a moment before he begins to laugh. I cock my head in confusion, and Gus looks a little offended.
“She’s my best friend and has spent plenty of time around hockey players. You wouldn’t stand a chance with her.” Obie wheezes a little as he talks. Gus pouts.
I’m intrigued.