Chapter 9
Present Day
People I don’t hear from over the next twenty-four hours: Moreau, who skipped the session he’d booked with me. Or Chase Merritt.
People I hear from instead: my mother, who sends over a list of terrible job openings, all in cities far from New York. And my ex, who still thinks there’s a chance I’ll join a Las Vegas skating revue.
Things are not going well. And every time I close my eyes, I flash back to three ugly words on a piece of paper. Go home, bitch.
But I won’t. I’m too stubborn.
Instead, I put in some quality hours in my new cubicle on the fourth floor. I watch game tape and fill my notebook with personalized lesson plans for every player. And I mentally rehearse what I’ll say to Chase when I see him again.
Hi, Chase, let’s start over. I’m sorry I got you fired from a job ten years ago.
But that only happened because I fell for you like the coyote in a Road Runner cartoon—swiftly, and with terrible consequences.
After our train wreck, I spent the next year crying in my room after skating practice, wondering why you wouldn’t take my calls.
So how about we call a truce? Now please sign up for your one-on-one coaching session. If you don’t, I could get fired from my job.
Meanwhile, maybe we can figure out why one of the best skaters I’ve ever met is skating like shit this season. What is up with those acceleration issues? Do you have an injury that’s not in your file?
It’s a work in progress.
When I leave the Legends’ HQ at six thirty, the place is a ghost town. The players are away at another game. This one is close to home, though—just across the river in New Jersey. They’re playing one of their closest rivals, and I’d really like to watch.
Except I’m too broke to buy a TV or pay for cable.
Luckily, this is Manhattan, and I’ve scouted out a sports bar on Eighth Avenue a few blocks from my apartment.
It’s called Highlights, and from the doorway, I can see they have the Legends game on two different screens, and a Go Legends! banner visible above the bar.
They also have a fourteen-dollar burger that I can probably afford.
Inside, I find that most of the tables are taken, and the crowd is amped up for the game.
There’s a loud group of beer-bellied men in Legends jerseys in a giant circular booth.
As I steer past them, one of them catcalls me.
“Nice jacket, honey! Wanna see my hat trick?” Ignoring him, I look for a barstool with a good view of the TV and hang my Legends jacket on the back of it.
A bearded bartender with kind eyes sets a coaster down on the bar in front of me. “Here for the game?”
“Absolutely.” I put my notebook down on the bar. “And a burger, too.”
“Let me grab you a menu.”
Liking this place already, I order a beer and a burger and flip open my notebook. The game is only in its fifth minute, so I haven’t missed much.
Trenton isn’t a great team, and we’re favored to win.
I settle in, scribbling notes whenever they occur to me.
Tremaine looks sharp. I wonder if he’s been practicing the technique we went over.
It’s something to watch for. The TV camera doesn’t often linger where I’d like it, but the replays are handy.
As the game grinds on, I eat my burger with one hand and scribble with the other.
“Hey,” intrudes a male voice to my side. “Are you joining a fantasy hockey league or something?”
A flick of my eyes to the right shows me a guy about my age, wearing a blue Legends jersey and a backward baseball cap. “Or something,” I mutter in a voice that doesn’t invite a follow-up.
“So you probably need some tips, yeah? Lotta decent players on this team. Not great, but passable.”
“Good to know.” I scribble a quick note about the goalie. Reduce inside edge drag?
I’m also watching Tyler Jackson, a player I’ll be seeing tomorrow. I want to work with him on lateral acceleration.
“God, this guy,” my neighbor mutters. “So overrated. I mean, sure, he blocks shots, but that’s just because he’s too slow to get out of the way.
You see how he just camps out in front of the net?
It’s like he’s got no idea what to do with the puck.
He’s got no offensive game at all. But no, he’s just standing there like a pylon. ”
I sigh inwardly. T.J., as they call him, is known for his willingness to block shots and do the dirty work that often goes unnoticed by the armchair quarterbacks in Eighth Avenue bars.
“Don’t trade for him,” my neighbor warns. “And whatever you do, don’t take Chase Merritt, either. His production is terrible this season.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Blowhard isn’t wrong this time. And Chase isn’t making a very good case for himself so far tonight. He hasn’t done much to create scoring opportunities.
The ref calls a play offsides, and the whistle blows. And suddenly there’s Chase’s sweaty face in HD, and I feel the same unwelcome jolt of electricity as always. Except now I don’t even have to feel guilty for staring at him anymore. It’s literally my job.
My dirty secret, though, is that I’ve been tracking his career for years.
After our intense summer and dramatic breakup, I lost track of him for a while. He left college for a junior team, I think. After that, he leveled up to the minor leagues in hockey. But those games aren’t widely televised, so he wasn’t on my radar.
That all changed one night when I was on my way to a competition in Europe. I was sitting in the international terminal at Logan Airport, bored. My eyes had drifted to the overhead TV screen, which was showing a hockey game between Boston and Edmonton.
The camera had focused on the Edmonton bench, and suddenly Chase’s blue eyes shone out from the screen.
He was frowning, his face red from exertion.
But my heart spasmed with both surprise and longing.
From that moment on, I became a secret hockey fan, watching games whenever I could.
Cheering for him even though he broke my heart.
Although I quickly learned not to google his name if I missed a game, because that brought up all kinds of other mentions I wasn’t prepared to see. As Chase’s major league career expanded to New York, so did his collection of photos in the gossip rags.
Like the photo I saw of Chase on a red carpet, escorting a young recording artist to the Grammy Awards. He always did like his music.
Or the pics of him at a party with a B-list actress.
Or the one where his date was a pretty Swedish snowboarder.
To protect my heart, I became a hockey-only fan of Chase’s, at least until I got married. Then I stopped watching games, because it felt disloyal. My achy heart needed a break, anyway.
“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” my neighbor asks suddenly.
Sigh. “That’s a nice offer, but I already drank my limit,” I say. “I’m switching to water.”
Without missing a beat, the bartender slides a glass of ice water onto the bar in front of me. Then he gives me a wink so fast I might have imagined it.
On the screen, the game heats up, and the loud booth in the corner starts yelling. “C’mon, fuckers! Shooooooot!”
As we all collectively hold our breath, Tremaine sends a wrister flying toward the Trenton goal. But it’s deflected. The guys in the corner all howl their disappointment.
I see a silver lining here. I watch the replay with unblinking intensity to confirm it: our captain rotating his edges before springing into action, for a speedier acceleration.
Yesss. If he keeps that up, it might just make a difference.
“Can I tell you a secret?” the blowhard beside me says. Then, without waiting for a response, he continues. “This is a hockey bar. Lot of players live in this neighborhood. Sometimes they come in here after games.”
“Really?” This is interesting enough to me that I actually glance at him.
He gives me a flirty smile. “The practice facility is a couple blocks away, so a lot of the guys live in this neighborhood. It’s real convenient. One of my favorite things about New York, the celebrities live among us.” Then he rattles off the names of a handful of players, including Chase’s.
“Fascinating,” I say, mentally filing this away, just in case Chase never answers my emails and I have to track him down after hours.
Three seconds later, though, I forget all about my neighbor. Chase gets a breakaway, and the whole bar leans forward in their chairs. I stop breathing as he sets up the pass, and…
The other team’s D-man flattens him into the boards and runs away with the puck.
Hell. I slump in my seat as a collective groan rises in the room. Chase seems a beat behind in everything he does, and his skating lacks its usual finesse.
Anyone can have an off night, but there’s just something odd about his stride this season. Chase’s skating has always been so effortless and natural. These days it looks… uneven. And there aren’t that many possible reasons. I can count them on one hand.
An injury, but his file is clear. I checked.
An inner ear imbalance. Nah.
A neurological problem. Unlikely.
It could be a plain old muscle strain, but the trainers wouldn’t let that go on indefinitely. And again, there’s nothing in his file.
Just one more possibility occurs to me. It’s just the glimmer of an idea, really.
I’m mulling it over when I sense my neighbor staring at me.
I feel it like a sunburn and not in a good way.
“How’s your fantasy team shaping up? You gotta be careful which forwards you pick,” he volunteers.
“Take Chase Merritt. He’s kinda sucking wind this season. ”
I say nothing.
He doesn’t take the hint. “Merritt’s always looking for the highlight-reel goal instead of just getting pucks on net.
The kid needs to simplify his game. Can’t skate for shit this season, either.
If I were the coach, I’d bench him until he learns how to play the game the right way. He’s a winger, see, and—”