18
Roy vs Brodeur
Mitch
The house is quiet, but for all the wrong reasons. It’s claustrophobic, causing my skin to itch, so I step out onto the back porch.
This past week has been a complete shift at home, but as Mom predicted, Dad refused to stay at the hospital.
Two days after his stroke, following some serious conversations with the doctor, who helped us get the equipment we needed, as well as organize regular visits from a nurse, we all agreed that Bill shouldn’t be forced to spend his last days stuck in a shitty hospital bed.
Mom took Dad to his makeshift bedroom in the main floor den about twenty minutes ago, and Maxine headed home after coming over to ask my opinion on paint colors for the inn’s dining room. Now, all that’s keeping me company is the steady evening rain tapping against the porch roof.
I’m halfway through a beer when my phone buzzes on the table. TREMBLAZE flashes across the screen. I stare at it, letting it ring, unsure if I’m up to answering. But I owe this guy a lot, so I pick up.
“Hey, Logan.”
“‘Oly shit. You’re still alive,” he replies in his Quebecois accent.
“Barely. How’s retirement treating you?”
“It’s killing me. I reorganized my spice rack for fun today.”
“That’s pretty sad.”
“You ‘ave no idea. I almost bought a bird feeder at the garden store. A fucking bird feeder.”
I bark out a laugh despite myself. “Could be worse.”
“I don’t know about dat. I’m forty-two, my knees are shot, and my back ‘urts when I sneeze. Getting old fucking sucks.”
I lean back in my chair, smiling for what seems like the first time since we brought Dad home.
Logan Tremblay was one of my favorite teammates. He was like an older brother. Always there. Always helpful and supportive. Sort of like my on-the-road Hunter and Spencer. We used to speak every single day—in or off-season. But since he retired, we’ve had trouble keeping in touch.
“How’s la famille?” I ask using one of the limited French words I know.
“La famille va bien. Emmie started ‘igh school. Fucking driving us crazy. Julie got promoted at work. She’s partner now.”
“That’s great. Good for her.”
“Yeah, she loves it.” There’s a long pause. “Listen, Mitch. I heard about your dad.”
My smile fades.
“‘Ow’s he doing?”
I stare out at the rain-slicked yard. “Not great. It’s a matter of days.”
“Fuck, man… I’m sorry.”
“Do you hear from the guys much?” I ask, trying to change the subject, desperate to escape this emotional prison I’ve been in if only for a few minutes.
“Some. Russo keeps trying to get me to invest in a strip club.”
“Oh, Jesus. I guess some things never change.”
“They don’t. So, I ‘eard a rumor.”
“That narrows it down.”
“You’re retiring?”
I snort. “Who said that?”
“So, it’s true.”
“No, it’s not.” I rub a hand over my jaw. “I’m just… between things right now.”
“Between, like U.S. and Germany?”
I drop my head back. “How did you hear about that?”
“Hockey is a small world, remember?”
I grunt. “Apparently.”
“Are you thinking about taking the offer?”
“Not sure. I don’t know if I want to.”
“Then don’t.”
“Easy for you to say,” I scoff. Logan walked away from the league with two Cup wins, endorsement deals, and enough money to spend the rest of his life bathing in the maple syrup produced on his family’s maple grove.
“I wish I were you, and could spend my time organizing spice racks, but I need to do something,” I mutter.
“Funny you say that. I was thinking…” he begins in a tone that never leads to anything good. Usually, it means he has an idea and Logan’s ideas have ranged from mildly risky to catastrophically stupid.
“What’s up?” I ask cautiously.
“Okay, ‘ear me out,” he says. I can practically hear him grinning through the phone. “We should start a podcast.”
I don’t hesitate. “No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I don’t need to. The answer’s no.”
“Why not?”
“Because podcasts are for guys named Brent who wear tight jeans and talk about manscaping.”
“When’s the last time you listened to a podcast?” he asks, laughing.
“It’s been a while.” I’ve never actually listened to one, to tell the truth, only seen some while doom-scrolling on TikTok. “Anyway, do I strike you as the sort of guy who sits around discussing my feelings for the whole world to hear?”
Logan cackles. “That’s exactly why it would work.”
Exhausted, I shake my head and stifle a yawn. Caring for Dad has been a constant source of anxiety, with each coughing spell making me fear it’s his last one. I’m not sure I can handle Logan’s pitch right now.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mitch, come on. You remember the road trips?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And the arguments we used to have?”
I groan in response.
“People love that shit.”
That part, annoyingly, is true. Me and Logan used to argue in and out of the locker rooms. So much so that it basically became a team pastime.
Hockey strategy, coaching decisions, questionable plays, and ref calls—it didn’t matter.
We’d start talking, debating, and eventually half the team would gather around like it was pay-per-view television.
I never gave much thought to how fun it was… until now.
“Remember our Roy versus Brodeur fight?” Logan asks. “Man, you yelled at me for over twenty minutes straight because I said Roy was the best.”
“Because you were wrong. Brodeur is the best.”
“You see? This is what they want! Natural chemistry!”
“It’s called disagreement.”
“People love disagreement.”
The rain pounds harder against the porch roof while I stare out at the dark trees, but Logan keeps going, relentless.
“Sports podcasts are ‘uge right now. Most of them suck because everybody’s too clean. Too media-trained. But us? We’d be great at it.”
“For sure, because we’re famously stable individuals,” I reply sarcastically.
“We’ve got personality.”
“We’ve got too many concussions.”
“That probably ‘elps!” He laughs again. “Come on, man. We already ‘ave faces perfect for radio.”
I snort into my beer, thinking about his multiple scars and missing teeth. “You definitely do.”
“‘Ey, I’m fucking pretty.”
“You’re right. You’re stunning.”
For a second, I settle into how familiar this is. The jibes. The laughs. It’s so easy. Like being on the team bus after a win, everyone exhausted and talking shit, but being so fucking happy.
Then reality creeps back in, reminding me that I might not have that again. Not unless I accept Germany’s offer.
“I don’t know anything about podcasts,” I admit.
“But you know hockey.”
“That’s not enough, is it?”
“It is. We spent years in locker rooms. Fans eat that behind-the-scenes stuff up.” Logan lowers his voice dramatically. “You can finally tell the story about Jensen puking in his goalie mask.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me. “Absolutely not.”
“That story dies with us?”
“That story definitely dies with us.”
Logan sighs heavily. “Pussy.”
I shake my head, smiling. “Let’s say I considered it, I’m not exactly in a position to move to Montreal or wherever you’re planning on doing this.”
“Who said anything about moving? Calisse, Adams. It’s twenty-twenty-six, fucking grandpa. We can record from anywhere.”
“We can?”
“Ben, oui!” Logan answers. “You could do this from the moon if the Wi-Fi is good.”
My eyes drift toward the house, warm light glowing through the windows.
Anywhere. The word sinks into my heart, and suddenly, I feel possibilities blossoming.
“I’m telling you, man, this could be fun,” Logan goes on. “An episode a week. Hockey talk. Dumb stories. Some guests. Very low commitment. Besides, I ‘ave to take care of l’érablière full-time and I know you ‘ave your life over there. We’ll have a schedule, but nothing crazy.”
“Low commitment?” I repeat, asking myself if I do, in fact, have a life over here. “This sounds like more work than you’re letting on.”
“It is work. But fun work. It won’t feel like work.”
I rub my forehead, already exhausted by the idea. “I don’t know…”
“Mitch, you love hockey as much as me. If we do this, you don’t have to give it up. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t miss the game.”
“I told you I’m considering Germany, didn’t I?”
Logan grunts noisily. “Bah, fucking Allemagne. Tabarnak, Adams. You aren’t going to fucking Germany and you know it.”
I drop my head. Phil’s been radio silent, which I guess means no one’s biting, so I have no clue what I’m doing yet.
My mind should be made up by now, but it’s like every time I think I’m making a decision, a wrench gets thrown into my plans.
My life is so messed up; I refuse to add one more thing to the pile.
Still, for the first time in weeks, my future doesn’t feel like a brick wall, just a foggy road I can’t fully see, but know is out there.
“Okay, let me think about it.”
“Yes!” he exclaims.
“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t say I’d do it.”
“That means yes in Mitch language.”
“It absolutely does not.”
“You will. I’m already designing the merch.”
“If you put my face on a mug, I’m suing you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Good night, podcast partner. Give my love to your family. And my best to your dad.”
“Will do. Kisses to la famille. Go buy your bird feeder, old man.”
Logan laughs before hanging up. I lower the phone slowly, staring out into the rain again.
His idea sounds ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
But then why does it also make so much sense?
I guess what they say is true: sometimes, one door closes and another one opens.