Chapter 21
chapter twenty-one
Ryland:
Dabbs! You asshole!
Dabbs:
What? What’d I do?
Ryland:
You keep distracting me, that’s what. Every time we see each other, I swear to myself that THIS will be the day I’m going to blow you silly in exchange for telling me what you said to me in French. Yet every time, you distract me with your smile and your chest and your stupid big dick energy.
Dabbs:
You’re going to blow me anyway, so that’s not a fair trade.
Ryland:
Dabbs, I swear to god . . .
Dabbs:
I’ll take your word that you’ll never play “get” in Scrabble again as trade.
Ryland:
Fine. Yes. Whatever. The word’s been deleted from my vocabulary. Now tell me.
Dabbs:
T’es comme un arc-en-ciel, captivant et surprenant.
Ryland:
Google says . . . You’re like a rainbow, captivating and surprising?
Ryland:
Did you actually mean that or were you just feeding me a line because I asked?
Dabbs:
I meant it. You’ve always had color where others are gray, Ry.
* * *
The race for the final wild card spot in the Eastern Conference came down to the last day of the regular season.
Ryland had been watching the standings closely for weeks, and if he were a betting man, he would’ve bet on the Pilots.
Sure, they were down by two in the middle of the second period during this last game of the season, but the tide could turn at any moment.
They needed to win this game. Montreal had won against Ottawa two nights ago, putting them ahead of the Pilots by one point.
If the Pilots won tonight, they’d kick Montreal out of the second wild card spot and claim it for themselves.
If they lost in regulation, they were shit out of luck.
If they lost in overtime, they’d tie with Montreal for points, but since Montreal had won more games this season, the wild card spot would still be theirs.
The Pilots needed to win.
End of story.
They were playing the Washington Undergrounds, a team they’d beat a couple of times this year. But the Undergrounds had turned their game around right before Christmas, and they’d clinched the first playoffs spot in their division. Tonight, they were playing as if this was sudden death.
Assholes. They wouldn’t give a fucking inch.
During intermission, Coach gave a motivating speech that essentially boiled down to a combination of “Get it together, guys” and “I know you’ve got it in you.
” And Des got everyone revved up, leading a rousing—and very off-key—rendition of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” that Ryland was sure the Washington players could hear in the visiting locker room.
During the third period, Ryland created scoring chances for his teammates, but no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get the puck to hit the back of the net. Ryland could read the frustration on everyone’s faces. Felt it acutely himself, his chest a tight mess of anxiety and determination.
And then, Miles on the breakaway, tearing down the ice.
He shot...
The goalie caught it glove side.
The entire arena groaned. Ryland clenched his jaw so tight he’d give himself a headache.
“Goddamn talented Washington goalies,” he muttered to himself as he dropped onto the bench after his shift.
Miles fell onto the bench next to him, looking more heartbroken now than when he’d told Ryland about his divorce. “I thought I had it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Ryland said, even though he wanted to cry. They were so close.
But it was a good thing he wasn’t a betting man. He was on the ice for his final shift of the night—of the season—when they lost the game. The sight of all those disappointed fans wearily lowering their handmade signs hit him harder than it ever had.
Tears stinging the backs of his eyes, he held his head high.
He wanted to curl into a ball, right here on the ice, and cry over the loss—they’d been so fucking close.
So many times he’d imagined what it would feel like to make the playoffs for the second year in a row.
He’d wanted so badly for his team to redeem itself after last season’s disastrous playoffs elimination that he almost couldn’t believe they hadn’t made it.
But despite not being in the playoffs, Ryland had had a good season.
The team had had a good season. They’d come together, especially in the past three or four months, thanks in part to Ryland’s efforts to unify the team.
He’d even implemented a new team meeting protocol after the new year, where five names were randomly picked out of a hat, and those five players had to tell everyone one thing nobody knew about them.
Of course, that tended to run the gamut from “I used to eat muffin wrappers as a kid” to “I have a fear of going bald” to “Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have gone to med school like my dad wanted.” But without fail, it sparked laughter or discussion—often both.
And, to his surprise, new friendships had formed out of those revelations, which had slowly broken down the silos formed by a super cliquey team.
There was still room for improvement—there was always room for improvement—but Ryland was looking forward to what next year brought even as he tried not to sulk about how this year had ended.
A kid wearing his jersey waved to him from behind the boards as he skated toward the chute, and he paused to wave back.
The kid was probably eight or nine, standing next to what Ryland assumed was his dad, and he had the Pilots logo painted on one baby-faced cheek.
His sign read, simply, Thanks for a great season, Ryland! You’re the best!
Tears threatened again, and a lump the size of a small mountain clogged his throat.
In the coming days, sportscasters, analysts, and social media commenters would tear this game apart.
They’d dig into every little thing that had gone wrong—ignoring all that had gone right—and they’d offer unsolicited advice on how to make the team stronger for next year.
And here was this one kid with his sign that looked to have been hand-painted on the back of a shoebox lid, reminding Ryland that there was more to life than making the playoffs.
He looked around for a puck to toss over the boards. When he didn’t find one, he pointed between himself and the kid and held up his hockey stick. “Trade you.”
The kid’s jaw dropped open and he nodded eagerly.
In short order, the sign was on Ryland’s side of the boards and his stick was on the other. Sure enough, the sign had been painted on a shoebox lid, yet Ryland held it as though it were a newborn puppy.
He took it to the locker room and propped it up in his stall.
Thanks for a great season.
A great season.
They’d made this one kid happy, and maybe that was all that mattered.
The mood in the locker room reminded Ryland of a funeral. At some point, Coach would come in to either console them or berate them—maybe both—and since it was the last game of the season, the press would probably be let in at some point.
In the meantime, most of the players sat around staring at their hands or into space.
Ryland removed his skates, stripped out of his uniform, and got the music going. Not loudly. Just something upbeat to get the blood moving.
Forcing a smile he didn’t feel, he said, “All right, guys, it’s time,” and waved a hand Vanna White-style at the table he’d set up with all of his little trophies.
“Can we do that another time, Ry?” Maymi asked, dragging a hand back through his hair, the scar bisecting his cheek somehow extra pronounced. “I don’t think anyone’s in the mood.”
“Which is precisely why we should do this now.” He picked up the first trophy, a cheap plastic thing no longer than his palm.
He’d added a strip of masking tape to the front and, in Sharpie, had written Most Community Events.
“The award for most community events attended goes to . . . ” He handed it to Maymi with a flourish.
“Fuck off,” Buman said with a laugh. “Him? I thought for sure I was going to win that one.”
Des slapped Buman on the shoulder. “Maymi’s at all the kids’ events the organization puts on.”
“They’re not afraid of his ugly mug?”
Maymi flipped him off, earning a round of laughs.
Ryland swallowed a smile and handed out the rest of the trophies.
Rookie of the year.
Most improved.
Sportsmanship.
Best at getting everyone motivated.
His totally irrelevant ones made everyone laugh: best smile—Miles got that one—best flow, best ass, cleanest stall, and smelliest socks.
Everyone gave Des shit for winning that one.
“As if everyone else’s socks don’t smell as bad as mine,” Des grumbled good-naturedly.
“That’s it,” Ryland said over the revelry. “Thanks for casting your votes, guys. If you have any feedback about any categories that should be added next year, I’m all ears.”
“Wait,” Des said. “There’s one award left.”
Ryland frowned at his empty table. “No, there isn’t.”
“Sure there is.” Des removed a trophy that had been hidden in his stall. “For working his ass off to bring us all closer together, the award for most team spirit goes to . . . trumpets please.”
The guys all made that trumpet fanfare announcement sound—too-tootoo-tooooooo.
Putting on the voice of a sportscaster announcing the starting lineup, Des yelled, “Ryland Zer-vu-da-chiiiiiiiii.”
Ryland barely heard the cheers or felt the backslaps as Des handed him the trophy—the same kind of cheap trophy Ryland had just handed out, although his had a piece of tape with Most Team Spirit written in chunky black letters. He blinked back tears.
Fuck. This day was going to make him fall to pieces.
He showered and headed home. Some of the guys invited him out, but he wanted his house and he wanted to call Dabbs, and he maybe wanted to have a good cry over the direction the day had gone.
In his driveway, he sat for a minute and breathed. Not making the playoffs sucked, there was no two ways around it. It was like going through an entire grueling season for very little payout.
But that wasn’t strictly true, was it? Every game played was an opportunity to learn something and to improve one’s skills.
Ryland used to think he had to be the best—winning spelling bees and school science fairs and the class presidency, and, later, hockey championships—because being the best, the loudest, the flashiest, was the only way he’d get anyone’s attention.
But the hand-painted sign and the trophy, sitting on the passenger seat next to him, were proof that wasn’t the case.
He just had to do his best, and that was enough.
How was it possible for his body to feel so heavy with defeat yet for his heart to be so light with gratitude?
“Both things can be true,” he muttered to himself.
On a day that had turned disappointing, the sign and the trophy were bright spots.
As was the man waiting for him inside his house.
Standing in his foyer, he stared at Dabbs for a long moment, his heart giving a sharp tug. Where the hell had he come from? He hadn’t been here this afternoon when Ryland had left for the arena.
“Are you my consolation prize?”
Dabbs took his hand and kissed the back of it. “I was hoping to be your victory prize.”
“I do feel like I won the lottery with you, so that fits.”
Eyes widening, breath catching, Dabbs didn’t appear to know what to say to that. He looked as flummoxed now as when Ryland had surprised him with Reginald P. Stokes’ event.
Ryland had made him speechless. He let out a delighted laugh and caught Dabbs’ lips with his. “Hi,” he said belatedly, setting the sign and trophy aside.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you about it later.” Ryland took Dabbs’ hand and led him toward the bedroom. “First, I want consolation sex.”
Dabbs’ answering growl sent a shiver up his spine. “That can be arranged.” He scooped Ryland up, threw him over his shoulder, and ran into the bedroom to Ryland’s delighted laughter.
Where he was both Ryland’s consolation prize and victory prize.
All night long.