Twenty-Three
ADAK
I watch the puck as Lamar traps it in his glove.
He moves the glove around so the puck thrashes under it.
Finally he stands and raises his stick, pointing it at St. Louis’ goalie, Drick.
He nods and Lamar sends the puck to the other end of the rink.
Drick catches it against his stick, flicks it back and forth a few times, and then sends it back across the ice.
This is what I’m watching as the four refs confer over a penalty called with the two team assistant captains hanging out just beyond their huddle. The goalies are playing pass.
The chuckle that comes out can’t be helped. Goalies. Sometimes I wish I were a goalie.
“Gibbs, man,” Hollinger says, shaking his head as he watches with a smile all his own.
His words cause others to look and suddenly our bench is filled with smiles as the goalies play in the sandbox together. Unbothered by the world around them while they do what they enjoy doing.
Eventually, the ref huddle breaks up and Fallon Stillwater moves to center ice to face the camera. His eyes flicker to mine and I catch the hint of a frown. He’s not happy and doesn’t agree with the call. And it looks like I’m not going to either.
Nope. Axtell ends up in the sin bin with a two-minute penalty. When Fallon is done calling it, he gives me a tight-lipped frown.
“Bullshit,” Axtell mutters as he climbs back over the half wall. “Refs need to get their heads out of their asses.” We watch him skate away and the team looks at me.
St. Louis is on a power play. They’re going to go aggressively for a goal.
This is the last game of the season and I want my team to go out on a high—win or lose, but preferably a win.
I glance up at the clock. It’s not looking good, though.
We’re 1-4 and not in the positive. However, we have twelve minutes left in the third period.
“Defend heavy. They’re going for goal. Try to keep the puck beyond the blue line.”
My team nods and breaks. I listen distantly to the announcers, repeating the penalty. My Bobcats are decent at four on five. One of the things I’ve tried to truly push this year is uneven sides of the ice. So they do well splitting their attention.
The puck drops and as soon as it’s heading toward Lamar, Drick is skating back to the bench.
“Fuck,” Traer mutters.
I sigh in frustration. They already have a three-point lead. Do they really need to go all out? It seems reckless. I can’t help but glance toward their bench and try to imagine what their coach is thinking.
The puck stays on our end of the ice with a slew of messy shots being flung at Lamar. There’s a rising cheer in the crowd as our four-man team pushes the puck back toward the opposite end, but it’s quickly overpowered and blindly shot toward Lamar.
Not near his goal, mind you. He stops it easily, shifts his direction as if he’s going to pass to Hollinger on the other side of his net, and the next thing we’re watching is that puck being shot into the air, over the heads of the wall of players in front of him, as it sails to the other end of the rink.
Time slows as I watch it, mouth open. The goal hits the center of the empty net and the crowd cheers are loud and wild.
The horn sounds as the four other players on the ice surround Lamar in a hug.
There’s excited cheering and hugging on the bench too as we celebrate the amazing, and incredibly rare, goal.
Not two minutes ago, this man was playing pass with the opposite team to pass the time. He then effortlessly sends the puck sailing for a shot that’s happened less than a dozen times in NHL history.
Lamar skates by the bench, hitting his glove against the rest of the team’s as they’re leaning over cheering for him. The smile on Lamar’s lips is small, content. As if what he’d done wasn’t a big deal. And then he skates back into his net and gets ready for the next play.
“There needs to be more goalies like that,” Traer says. “Not ones we play against, but nevertheless…”
I laugh.
The clock winds down and Drick stays firmly in his goal for the rest of the game. I think we’re home free. Yes, we’ve lost by two, but the team is flying high on Lamar’s score.
That is, until only a minute and a half remain and Hollinger is thrashed into St. Louis’ goalpost and ends up on his back clutching his chest.
“Motherfucker,” Renny says as the whistle blows.
We watch as the team surrounds him. The refs join. It’s several tense minutes before Hollinger is on his feet, but I can tell by the way his face is tense that he’s in a lot of pain. He’s moving. That’s good.
“I’ll accompany him to Brandon and see what’s going on,” Traer says as he moves out of the bench to follow.
“Thank fuck this is the last game,” Axtell says, shaking his head.
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
As soon as the final whistle blows, one of St. Louis’ players skates for our bench. “He’s going to be okay, right? I swear, I didn’t mean to shove him into the goal like that.”
He’s young. No one can look at this man and not see how earnest and guilty he looks.
Renny slaps his shoulder. “Holly’s tough. I’m sure he’s okay but we haven’t heard yet.”
The kid nods. “I’m sorry. I saw that hit that Emmons took that looked like it should have been nothing and now being injured or causing someone else that kind of injury intentionally gives me nightmares every night.”
Lamar gives him a one-armed hug. “You’re a good man. Holly will appreciate your concern. But bro, don’t live in fear like that. It’ll throw off your game.”
“He’s right. We come into this sport knowing full well that we can get seriously hurt. As is the risk we take playing full contact sports,” Renny says. “Accidents happen.”
He nods.
We head to the chute, the mood is stuck between excitement for Lamar’s historic goal and the heavy storm cloud hanging overhead for yet another injury. The team crowds around Brandon’s office but shuffles to let me through as I get closer.
Hollinger is sitting on the examination table, his pads discarded as Brandon examines his rib cage. There’s already a very angry bruise appearing.
“What’s the verdict?” I ask.
Brandon looks up. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Bad first,” Hollinger says.
“At the very least, I think you have a bruised rib. I don’t think it’s broken, but we need to get an x-ray to see for sure.”
Hollinger scowls.
“The good news?” I ask.
“We don’t have any more games this season.” Brandon looks at me. “He’ll be good as new by training camp—as long as he behaves and allows his body to heal as it needs.”
The relief on Hollinger’s face is echoed with the sighs and expletives behind me. I try not to show too much relief myself, but fuck, I’m thankful that he’s not more seriously injured. I grip his leg. “You best do as the PT says,” I tell him.
Hollinger smiles. “Of course, Coach.”
I turn to my team standing at the door. “Go home. I’ll be in touch and we can have a last look and conversation about the season in a couple days.”
They start to move off. “Gibbs.” He pauses at the door, his helmet gripping the crown of his head. “Good fucking shot, man. I’m proud of you.”
He grins. “Thanks, Coach.”
“That’s something to show your grandkids one day. Be proud of that.”
His smile widens. “I am. Thanks.”
He moves down the hall and I follow more slowly.
Oren isn’t here. We decided that it’s safest for him at home until his father has moved on.
He’s been quiet as far as new posts go, but based on the dialogue some of the louder anti-LGBTQIA+ organizations are now putting out, he hasn’t given up his attacks.
I try not to think about the call from Egon. There’s an urge inside me to call and ask for an update. But I don’t want to know. I need to not know anything. The only things that matter right now are Oren’s safety, happiness, and well-being, the health of my players, and preparing for next season.
By the time I get home, it’s nearing eleven. Colby is still here as I pull my car into the garage. I find them in the living room sitting on the floor… doing a puzzle on the coffee table. Sports Spot is still on, though it’s been muted with closed captioning turned on.
Oren sees me first and the smile that lights up his face when he looks at me has my heart stuttering. Is it too soon to love this man? I think I might already.
Colby twists to see me and grins. “I’m stupidly bummed that I missed being there for Gibbs’s goal.”
Oren is already in my arms, and I hug him tightly. I hate that he’s not coming to the arena anymore. One of my favorite parts about the end of games had been coming to my office to see him waiting for me.
I nod. “Epic,” I say. “Absolutely incredible. Just minutes before that, he was passing the puck back and forth with Drick while the refs debated the penalty call.”
“It was a like a big fuck you to that bogus call,” Colby says, cackling. “And playing pass? He was just warming up for the long shot. Getting his precision down to a science. God, I’m bummed I wasn’t there.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him he will be next time… but that’s one of those shots that the vast majority of hockey fans—players, management, everyone everywhere—will never see in their lifetime. Not in person, anyway.
“Gibbs will always be capable of greatness. The man is unpredictable at the best of times.”
He nods and then yawns.
“Want to crash in the spare room?” I ask.
Colby nods again. “Yeah. I should have left like an hour ago. It’s far past my bedtime.”
“You could have left,” Oren says. “I’m fully capable of being alone.”
Colby gets to his feet and slaps Oren’s back on his way by before pausing. “I like hanging with you, Oren. Where’s the spare room?”
I nod in the direction he’s already headed. “Up the stairs. The three doors on the left. Take your pick.”
“You have three guest rooms, Coach?” he asks, giving me a dubious look.
Laughing, I shrug. “I have a big family. They were here for New Year’s.”
“Mmm,” he hums noncommittally and starts marching up the stairs. His steps fade and then we hear him again. “Damn. This is a sexy room.”
Oren giggles. “What makes a room sexy?”
I shake my head. “No idea. But I’ll make sure my sister knows she made a sexy room.”
He laughs, burying his face into my neck. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“I missed you too. I was just thinking about how much I miss you being in my office waiting for me after games.”
“It’s the last one for a while.”
“Months. Several months.”
“Hopefully by next season, everything will be quiet, and I can come back to the arena,” he says.
I kiss his head. It better be calm by then.
“And also, I’m glad the season is over. I can’t believe Holly got hurt. Is he okay?”
“Bruised rib, we think. We’ll know for sure whether it’s more than that once a doctor reads his x-ray. Probably tomorrow.”
He sighs. “Bobcats need a break.”
He wasn’t wrong. They definitely need a break. “Ready for bed, baby?”
Oren yawns, as if my question triggered his fatigue. “Yeah.”
“I’m going to lock up. I’ll meet you in bed.”
With a nod, Oren kisses my jaw and then heads for the stairs while I start the methodical process of obsessively checking all the windows and doors before setting the alarm. I peer outside. The neighborhood is quiet.