Chapter 19 #3
I nod, putting stuff into my duffel. “Good.”
“GM and Coach want you to finish the series tomorrow night here in Boston.”
So, that means I’m back to Fox River Falls and the Iceguard after this next game. I assumed it would be sooner rather than later that I’d go back down. If anything, three games was more than I’d hoped to have.
“Alright.” I nod. “Whatever needs to be done.”
Jerry clasps my shoulder. “Where are you headed?”
I nod toward the warmup room. “Trainer then catching up with Benji.”
“Benji’s been solid for us. Always is. We’ll get you on a plane back together if we can.”
After running through a few things with the trainer, I tape my knee for extra support since the next game is the next day without the buffer day of recovery in between, like we had between the first and second of the series.
Benji shows me a great seafood place he found, and by the time we’re done it looks like a family of five ordered food rather than two men.
As we walk back to the hotel, Benji teases me about my text stream with Thatcher as my thumbs fly over the screen.
“So, I take it things are going well with the hot dad?”
“Real good.”
“What does he think about the call-up?”
I shrug. “Nothing but support, man. He has every reason to be nervous,” I begin, thinking of how true that is. From his father to Liz, Gabe Thatcher’s life has taught him to keep his heart far away from hockey and from a guy like me. And here he is, my biggest cheerleader.
“Holy fuck,” Benji says, digging an elbow into my side. “You’re in love with him.”
I blink at Benji.
“What? No. It’s way too early for that.” Falling for him? Maybe. But I have yet to land. Right? Wouldn’t that be something I should know?
***
The last game in the series comes fast. Since we just played the night before, the morning is light and focused on plays and film over drills or workouts.
The advantage of having the home ice can be seen more in this game than arguably any other, so we don’t want to tire ourselves out.
The other team went home to rest, not a hotel, and by the third in the series, it can show.
I have my bag packed, so when we get a break before the game, everyone else heads back to the hotel but I choose to walk around. The weather is nice so I grab some lunch and sit in the sun close to the water. The coast does have it’s perks.
I text Thatcher off and on. He knows I’m headed home after this, but I can tell he’s letting me set the pace on how frequently we talk and what is said.
It gives me a lot of open space for some introspection, so I slap on my skates early and hit the ice in simple training gear. There’s a buzz of people in the arena—workers mostly—but they aren’t on the ice or even close to it.
I think about the NAPH. I think about my dreams, my goals.
I can still play pro-level hockey, I’ve proven that now. But I also know the physical toll it takes—which is on me. I should have taken care of myself when my knee was injured instead of trying to play through it or pretend the injury didn’t exist.
But those are the choices of past years, and I can’t spend my life dwelling on them. It only solidifies the truth I’ve known since I cleared my head in rehab.
There has to be something other than hockey in my future. Hockey is a dream that sustained me for a good while, but now? Now there has to be a new dream.
There’s the other truth too. Getting called up and showing I can be here is amazing. I’m grateful to be able to prove myself so early. But the thrill of calling myself a hockey player is a bit hollow these days.
It’s not just that I need to be more than a hockey player for all the practical reasons, like my age and my knee. It’s that I want to be more.
In my head, in all of these endless thoughts and loops I skate on the ice, is Thatcher.
I fly down the ice, picking up incredible speed, and with the ice to myself I bank a curve to do it again. It’s flying, of a sort. Maybe I’m not falling for Gabe as much as he makes me feel like I can fly. Soar.
The word falling suggests the idea of landing somewhere. But flying is infinite.
I don’t get out of my head until they’re pulling the nets onto the ice and Dom, the hotshot kid of all people, skates up to me.
“Wanna go?” he asks, dropping the pucks and motioning to the net.
“Sure.”
We set up a quick assist drill—I assist, and he attacks the goal. Others join us on the ice and the pucks now are sent back to me, giving us an endless loop to play with.
We change positions, working on precision shots, and Dom gives me a grin as I get close enough for the kind of casual conversation early warmups allow.
“Looked like you were working through something earlier,” he says, lining up the shot.
“Yeah, kinda was.”
He sends the puck to the upper left corner in a clean shot that breezes the bar but doesn’t touch it.
“You’ve played great, man. Proud to have you here.” Dom is all charm and seriousness, and his eyes are settled. It’s a side of him I haven’t seen so far.
I send him a smirk. “It actually wasn’t all about hockey.”
He grins back.
“There are thoughts that aren’t about hockey?” he says, and I laugh back. Kid’s got something, that’s for sure. He’s more than attitude and power plays.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Nah, man.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze and he sort of gives a shrug as if to emphasize he was joking before. “You got something more than hockey?” he asks. “That’s good. Hold the fuck on to that.”
I don’t say anything, but his words make me wonder if hockey is all he thinks he has, or could have. That’s a dangerous headspace to be in. I steal the puck from him as our goalie steps in front of the net, upping the challenge of the warmup.
Without thinking, I aim for the five-hole with a wrist shot.
Dom chuckles. “Always the five-hole for Roe Monroe.” I raise my eyebrows, and he gives me a look. “I watched you play when I was coming up, man.”
I shrug and force myself to ignore the invitation to count the years between us. “Favorite shot. Not as easy to defend when the goalie moves laterally, and a proven winner with a slap shot or wrist shot.” Those have always been in my wheelhouse.
Dom rests on his stick. “I know. I thought of how to play against you before I ever played with you, Monroe. I’ve seen the film.” He gives me a grin that I bet has gotten him in trouble a time or two.
“So, you’re obsessed with me,” I tease. “Makes sense now.”
“There’s Monroe! He’s back!” our goalie calls when he hears my teasing, and I feel myself slip into the rhythm with these guys.
I feel the grin spread over my face.
It’s good to be back.