Chapter 35 Tristan
TRISTAN
The puck pops free in the neutral zone, and I burst toward it at a speed that surprises the Washington defenseman. Swiping the puck off his lazy stickhandling is a joke.
It’s something the coaches and I have been working on.
I establish pace and snag scoring chances during the first two periods but push my speed to the next gear when we hit the third.
The crowd is louder with my every stride down the left wing.
I burn past the last man back so it’s just the goalie now.
I fake a shot, cut right, and go for the backhand tuck.
It grazes the post.
Damn.
My linemates groan. The arena slumps back. I circle toward the bench, sucking air through my mouthguard.
Neither team has scored yet. Opportunities have been few and far between, but I’ve come the closest in this tight game. The guys pat me on the back and tell me “great shot” which is unearned, since I didn’t get the job done. Coach Zach assesses me, his gaze openly calculating my value.
Lance Jefferson, our star forward, goes hard at the net. We all burst to our feet in anticipation. This could be the clincher. Lance makes a nifty move to get the goalie out of balance. He’s about to release the shot when he gets a nasty hook from behind, making him sprawl on the ice.
That’s a two-minute penalty for Washington.
Lance skates back to the bench but doesn’t hop over to sit down. He earned a spot in the power play and is consulting with the offensive coordinator. Surprisingly, I get a hard pat on my shoulder.
“You’re up for this one. Net-front.” Coach Zach’s orders are curt but clear.
This is the first time since being traded to the Mavericks that I’m taking a spot with the top line. I don’t question it, bolting toward the ice before he changes his mind.
Fighting for space in front of the opponent’s net is a hell of a job.
You get slashed, shoved, tripped, and sometimes speared if the referees are looking the other way.
It’s also possible you’ll end up stopping your teammate’s slapshot with your nose.
That’s a risk I’m willing to take as I plant myself like an oak tree in front of the goalie.
Sergei winds up at the blue line. He unleashes a rocket. I stay in the puck’s trajectory in order to screen the goaltender’s view. In the split second it takes for the puck to fly past five other bodies, I tilt my body, hoping for it to slip by and straight into the net.
It hits my hip pad instead, falling beside my skate blade.
I’m careful not to kick it in—which would negate the goal—and instead spin with my stick on the ice. The contact is swift, shoving the puck between the netminder’s legs. My five-hole stinger gets us on the scoreboard.
The boys on the bench go wild. Someone pounds on the glass behind me. I can’t stop smiling. Not because it was pretty, but because it mattered.
It isn’t my first goal since the trade from Denver, but this one gets us up one to zero while we’re chasing the top of our division. Hockey in February isn’t just about making the playoffs for a team like the Mavericks. Expectations are high, which means we’re gearing for home ice advantage.
It’s a tight game all the way to the final minutes. When Washington pulls their goaltender for an odd-man rush, Coach Zach taps me to play with the top line again.
“Still gloating about your garbage goal, Thorne?” That’s Radek Novak. We both played for Michigan State. We’ll probably grab a beer after this game if he isn’t too sore a loser.
There’s a saying that hockey players don’t love to win so much as they absolutely hate to lose. This guy is the meme for it.
“Me, gloat? Never. You should get your eyes checked, Novie,” I respond with a grin. “Oh wait, that won’t help since you’re only ever looking at my ass.”
“Asshole,” he mutters.
“Exactly.” I get the final word just as the puck drops in the circle.
We win the draw.
I dart behind the net, pick off a lazy reverse pass, and bolt out front of the line. I take a stick to the chin in order to snap the puck to Gordon, but my legs push past the hit. I follow the play.
Gordon’s drop pass is golden, landing right on my stick for a one-timer top shelf. The goalie isn’t even fast enough to flinch. His water bottle goes flying and the red lamp lights up.
My second of the night.
After the final buzzer, the locker room is a madhouse. A trainer is still taping up the gash on my chin when Coach Zach calls me into his office. He’s half sitting on the desk, arms crossed, and as stern as ever.
“We brought you in for speed,” he says. “But I saw something there today. Something a lot like your first few years in the league.”
“Thanks.”
“Your knee holding up?”
“Better than ever.”
He nods. “Keep playing like that, and you’ll earn a permanent spot on the power play. We need someone willing to pay the price in front of the net. Is that you, Thorne?”
“It is, Coach.”
“Good. Now get yourself patched up. You’re getting blood all over my carpet.”
We both chuckle, because everyone knows he doesn’t give a shit about the carpet. Coaches love to see their players bleed for the game. Not because they want to witness pain, but rather to gauge how much a player is willing to sacrifice.
The more blood, the more ice time. Hockey players are weird that way.
When I’m finally dressed, I check my phone and smile when I see a notification of Ligaya’s text. We’re meeting for the second ultrasound tomorrow, and I’m worried I didn’t put the time correctly in my calendar.
Ligaya: Yes, it’s at four. Same place. No holiday traffic to blame if you’re late.
She’s probably already asleep since it’s late, but I take a chance and text back: Would I have double checked the time if I planned to be late?
Ligaya: You’re right. Hey, great game tonight.
Knowing she stayed up to finish the game makes me smile.
Me: I like it when you admit I’m right.
Ligaya: Don’t get used to it. I think I pulled a muscle texting the words.
My grin widens as I text: Need a massage?
Connor walks up to his locker beside mine. “Are those goals getting you laid tonight?” he asks.
“Not your business,” I say but wait impatiently for Ligaya’s response because yes, I’d very much like to come home to her tonight. Every night, actually.
Ligaya: Maybe tomorrow? We could grab a bite after the ultrasound if you’re free. But it will have to be a quick one since there’s rehearsal at six.
I get a familiar spark of irritation at how much Ligaya pushes herself. It’s useless to complain, though, since she always rolls her eyes when I bring up the topic of hiring someone to take over the play. Knowing she’s exhausted all the time is freaking killing me.
However, asking her to sit out the play is motivated by another, more selfish reason. Her work and rehearsals never line up well with my practices and weekend games. I’ve seen her three times in the last month. It’s frustrating as fuck. I bite down my disappointment.
Me: Sounds good. See you tomorrow.
My phone buzzes. It’s Chris, my agent. I step into the hallway to take it.
“You made my night,” he says without saying hello. “Great game. Front office in Denver saw it, too. They’ll come calling.”
“What? That’s not what we talked about, Chris. I said reach out to upper management in Columbus.”
In January, during our West Coast stint, I met Chris for lunch in Los Angeles. He congratulated me on the news about the twins, so he knows exactly why I want to stay in Ohio.
“You know how this works, kid. I put my feelers out to everyone. Now that you’re producing, I’m getting a lot of interest.”
“I want Columbus. Make it happen.” My blood pressure is higher than any time I was on the ice. I can’t wait to tell Ligaya that the rest of my hockey career will be in Ohio.
But first, I need to get the damn contract.
“Let me do my job, Tristan,” he says with a hardened edge. “I know you want to be there for your baby mama.”
“Ligaya. Call her by her name.”
“Yes, sorry. Ligaya and the twins are your priority. But what kind of provider will you be if you don’t secure the best multi-year contract possible? You can’t be on a rental basis with Columbus. If they want you to stay, they need to pay the fuck up.”
Damn it, he’s right. A professional player rarely stays at this level after thirty-five. I started my career with a six-year contract, which is why I’ve had an NHL salary despite playing for Denver’s minor league team. Columbus only matched it for one season.
“You know what I want, Chris.”
“Yes. But I also know what you need. Let me handle things. Let me do my job. Celebrate those two goals and make sure there’s more where they came from.”
When I hang up, I’m in no mood to celebrate.