Chapter 8
EIGHT
Gavin
Thank God we have a day off tomorrow. It’s been a week of long, tough practices and the team can use a rest and recover before we take off for Milan in two days. Connor could use it most of all. He’ll never admit it, but I can tell he’s tired, and it has nothing to do with the on-ice workload.
After seeing the bruise on him a few nights ago, I’ve been sneaking glances at the end of each practice before he hits the showers.
That bruise is starting to fade but others are appearing in its place.
It’s distressing to say the least, to see him getting this beat up by his own teammates.
It’s like everyone is going extra hard on him and concealing cheap shots.
I thought, as a team, we were coming along. I thought we were better than this.
Maybe they’re just being competitive, but it feels different to that. And it’s only gotten worse now that practice has been opened to reporters and also Connor’s father.
God, that guy is an asshole. I’m honestly surprised his presence hasn’t gotten the guys to lighten up a bit on Connor.
He’s had the opposite effect. Which is surprising as we’ve all seen parents like Connor Sr in the past while playing in youth hockey leagues.
Overbearing and yelling at their kid through the glass.
There was one kid I played with back in Alaska who could barely conceal his panic attacks in the locker room after a poor practice.
He ended up quitting before he even turned thirteen.
I was lucky. We may have been broke and I may have had to get all my gear second hand or through donations, but at least my dad was never an asshole about how I played.
He’d attend every game and practice he could when he wasn’t out on a fishing run, and he’d always sit in the same spot in the stands.
Top row, center, so he could have a bird’s eye view of the ice.
If it was a game day, he’d treat himself to a shitty ice-rink hot dog and wash it down with a shittier cup of coffee lightened with powdered cream.
He had hopes for me, obviously. He wanted me to beat the Alaskan odds.
But most of all, he loved watching me play.
That’s not the impression I get from Connor Sr. He stands behind the glass with his arms crossed and critiques Connor every chance he gets.
He undermines Coach Chris and I wonder how Coach hasn’t punched the daylights out of him in Chicago if he’s been putting up with this ever since Connor joined the Broad Wings.
He also doesn’t hide his disdain for our teammates.
He sneers at them and makes it clear he doesn’t think any of us should be sharing the puck with his son. Most of all, me.
Which is why when Coach blows his whistle for us to take a break, I send a flying slap shot into his direction.
He’s lucky the glass is there as it collides with a loud thunk a few inches from the center of his face.
He jolts in surprise, and I wink at him as I skate by.
That would have been one hell of a shiner.
“That guy’s a real prick,” Bouchard says from his net a few feet away from me.
“You noticed, huh?”
“We’ve all noticed.” He holds up his water bottle that he keeps above his net during practice, offering me a squirt from it like he does when we’re on our home ice in Buffalo.
I hold my mouth open. “Thanks.” After I swallow and wipe my mouth and sweaty forehead with the back of my gloved hand, I move to stand beside him and rest against his net. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can, but you’re probably not going to like my answer.”
I blow out a breath. “So they are going after him?”
He pushes his helmet back so his face is no longer covered by the cage, and looks directly at me.
“I don’t think they’re trying to injure him, but they’re frustrated.
You know how it is.” He nudges me with his padded elbow, then takes a sip of his water.
“They all know they can’t compare to the league’s golden boy.
And having his dad here reminding them of that isn’t helping. ”
I frown. I do know how it is. I’m just as guilty as they are of targeting Connor during regular season play. But he’s my teammate now and I’ve never once gone after a teammate when they haven’t deserved it. That’s against the code.
“And I gotta tell you,” Bouchard says, “it’s only going to get worse when we get to Milan. Connor has a lot of enemies spread out among each country’s teams. Taking him out at the Olympics would be like scoring a hat trick.”
I take a breath and absorb what he’s saying. “They can increase their chances at winning gold, as well as getting into the playoffs back home.”
“And then the Stanley Cup,” Bouchard says. “But that’s assuming they don’t have to face us.” He holds his forearm up to me and I tap it with mine.
“Any suggestions on how we fix this?”
“Getting his dad out of here would be a start.”
“Yeah.” I grimace. “I don’t think that’s happening. I’m pretty sure I’ll get kicked off the team if I send him out of here on a stretcher.”
“Would be fun to see, though.” There’s a smile on his face as he says this like he’s imagining the scene playing out in his head.
I glance towards the rest of the team. They’re all grabbing sips of water out of their bottles scattered around the boards by the benches.
All except for Connor, who is stuck talking to a reporter with his father, who has moved away from the black puck mark I placed on the glass in front of him to be closer to his son.
Most of the team is trying to act like they’re not watching this interaction.
I wish Coach would blow his whistle to start practice up again, but I get the sense he knows from experience that doing that will be more trouble than it’s worth.
I look back at Bouchard. “I can keep our opponents in check at the Olympics, but only if I’m not busy making sure my own teammates aren’t trying to sabotage Connor’s career.”
“I think once we get to the actual games, their pride and desire to win will replace their animosity.”
“Yeah, but we still have to get them to want to play well with him if we’re actually going to win those games.”
“Take a play out of the goalie playbook.”
“How?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Have the group work on their splits and butterfly stretches together? I don’t think that’s going to help.”
“No, you ass.” He laughs. “You ever wonder why goalies always room together on road trips?”
“Because you’re all fucking weirdos,” I tease him. “And no one else wants to room with you.”
“Fair point.” He shrugs. “But not what I meant.” He offers me another squirt from his water, and I open my mouth. Then he takes one for himself. “It’s like this. Each team has two, in your words, fucking weirdo goalies, correct?”
“Yes. I know how a team roster works, smartass.”
“You know how the roster works for you puck runners. It’s different for goalies, though.”
“Alright.” I hold my hands up. “I’m listening.”
“It’s like this,” he begins. “You all get rotated in and out through the entire game. Your shift ends and you take a seat on the bench and the next group of guys go out. Around and around you go. In the end, you all—what? Play around eighteen minutes total.”
“More or less.” I shrug.
“Right. You all share ice time. It doesn’t work that way for goalies. Once Coach says you’re the one in net, you’re in that net the entire game unless something goes catastrophically wrong.”
“Still not following what the lesson here is.”
“I’m getting there,” he says, staring at me, then points his stick down the ice to Olsen, who’s standing in front of the other net, going through his routine of stretches and superstition-based rituals.
They somehow lock eyes from across the rink, then raise a gloved hand towards each other.
“Every goalie tandem in the league needs to figure out how to both compete with and support each other. It doesn’t do either of us or the team any good if we can’t get along.
We compete for that net every game during practice, but we have to be humble enough to be happy for the other one when Coach says it’s his net to mind for the night.
If we don’t get along, if we can’t put aside our egos and our bullshit, the entire team suffers. ”
“So I need to get the team to see they’re not competing with Connor. That there is plenty of ice to go around.”
“Exactly.” He takes another sip of his water. “It would also help if you could get Connor to come out of his shell a bit.”
I look at Connor, who has been relieved from talking to his father and the reporter. He’s now talking closely with Coach Chris near the bench. “You think he’s shy?”
“Not shy,” Bouchard says. “Guarded. Like you. Except he’s not a hard-ass who scares everyone into compliance. He hides behind that golden boy image.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“I see you’re not denying that you’re a hard-ass.”
“Hell, no.” I laugh. “That’s by design.”
“I’m aware.” He hits me with his elbow again. “You big softie.”
“Fuck off.” I hit him back, then quickly turn to face him. “Wait, though. How’d you know I was going to ask you about Connor?”
“Dude. I’ve been playing with you for seven years, most of that time watching you clobber players into next week from my home in the crease.
You think I don’t notice when your protective instincts kick in?
Connor may as well be a puppy out there for the way you chase after him, making sure he’s alright. ”
Fuck. I didn’t realize I was that obvious. But at least he doesn’t seem to think it’s anything outside of my usual treatment of my teammates.
Coach blows his whistle and signals for us to get into formation.
“Have fun chasing him,” Bouchard teases and pulls his helmet back down into place.
I skate backwards and give him the finger as I go to join the rest of the team to practice more drills.
Connor