Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Ever since Eric shared the photos of him and his teammates hanging out, I haven’t been able to stop comparing the Comets to the impression I have of the Seadogs.
It’s clear the Seadogs are a close, tight knit group.
I can only imagine how much of a positive impact these close relationships have had on their team dynamics and gameplay.
Their current division standings prove as much.
Among my own teammates, I know I should probably get closer to the defensemen who play in front of me.
I’ve tried in the past with a few of them, but they’ve either been temporary stop-gap players the team picks up before being traded to another team, or they’re players who aren’t interested in that kind of relationship with their goalie.
I don’t know if there’s a hidden “Braydan” on the Comets, but I’ll never become aware of him if I don’t make a stronger effort to connect with my own team—and that includes everyone, for better or for worse.
So when our spring road trip brings the Comets to Florida for two games against the sunshine state’s teams, I decide maybe it’s time to try reaching out again, especially ahead of the playoffs.
The warm, lively environment manages to make everyone’s mood during the trip better, so this is my best chance.
In the past, I haven’t attended many of the team outings during away games. I typically used my time off to call home, read, or do some extra goalie homework to prep for the next game. This season, I admit, I haven’t exactly changed my habits despite having more time for myself.
Unfortunately, it’s never been easy with the Comets. When the Comets are winning, spirits are high. Everyone’s happy. You would think this team could never lose.
But when we do, inevitably, lose… not everyone takes it well.
Our team has some big personalities with even bigger tempers, namely in our captain, Glenn Callahan. Callahan’s… prickly, to put it nicely. He’s hot and cold. When he’s in a foul mood, everyone tries to steer clear of him as much as we can, but maybe better communication would help.
One of the only people Callahan talks on the regular with is Nolan Sandoval, my backup. They’re two of our oldest players, long-time Comets who have history together. Sandoval’s probably the closest thing to a friend as Callahan has on the team.
Most of all, I’ve always thought the Comets were missing something, a spark to push us over the hurdles we’ve faced.
We live up to our name during the regular season, and for the past three, we’ve been able to reach the playoffs consistently.
However, when the playoffs start, we burn out and become nothing more than a crusty space rock floating aimlessly, orbiting what we desire most instead of earning it.
Even when our main roster’s healthy, even when we secure home ice advantages and favorable matchups, something fundamental has made it near-impossible to push further than the second round.
Maybe it’s the grind, maybe it’s the physical and mental demands of multiple lengthy series back to back.
Maybe late April and May just aren’t our months.
Whatever the reason, something has been our Achilles’ heel.
In comparison, when I played on Chicago’s AHL team, there was no shortage of sparks.
We all had a shared sense of unity and drive.
Everyone was a professional with a common goal: playing our best so we could one day be noticed and chosen to have a chance in the NHL—and if you kept playing well, you would be able to keep your promotion.
There were moments of frustration, but there’s no room for the kind of public tantrums NHLers are notorious for down in the AHL.
Everyone down there knows it’s a privilege to be playing professional hockey for a living.
Once you’ve had a taste of the NHL, you don’t want to go back.
I’m more determined than ever to see the Comets blast off to the Stanley Cup Final.
If stepping outside my comfort zone and learning how to communicate better with my teammates is the best way forward, then I have to try.
My dad always says breaking the ice with someone is the hardest part. Once you get going, it gets easier.
This road trip’s going to be the start of something new. I have to stop hiding behind flimsy excuses—my shyness, my awkwardness, my grief over my mom. I can’t only talk to Eric about hockey. I should be able to step up and communicate with my own team.
You just have to try, I tell myself over and over as a mantra. Give your teammates another chance.
Our first stop in Florida is Miami, and following an afternoon of practice ahead of tomorrow’s game, the team decides to tour the boardwalk, stopping for an early dinner at a bar and grill known for its fresh seafood.
During past team dinners, I usually sat by someone else who was quiet and safe who wouldn’t expect much conversation from me.
Callahan always sits at the head of the table, with Sandoval at his right.
Instead of hiding on the other end, I take the seat across from Sandoval, hoping to talk to both of them about our upcoming games.
Callahan seems to find my decision amusing, but Sandoval gives me a dirty glare over the top of the menu.
I try not to let it shake me; he’s a vital part of our team’s makeup.
I just have to take this one step, one person, at a time.
Callahan’s attention, however, is hard to capture.
He spends the majority of dinner talking with Sandoval about everything other than hockey.
It’s spring break, and the restaurant’s busy with young people enjoying the evening out with friends.
The two of them both have girlfriends back home, but that’s not stopping them from having wandering eyes.
I chose this spot at the table to talk about the upcoming games, but I’m discovering it’s impossible to squeeze any discussion of hockey into our conversation. I find myself zoning out over dinner instead of actively participating.
…At least until Callahan talks to me directly.
“So what do you think, Harrison?”
I snap back to the moment, hoping maybe, just maybe they’ve finally decided to talk hockey and want my opinion over something serious, but instead, Callahan’s pointing to a blonde woman at the bar.
“Is she a five, a seven, or something else?”
“Uh… I don’t know?”
“You don’t know? You should get your vision checked.” Callahan snorts. “What, not into blondes?”
I clear my throat and pretend I didn’t hear his question. “So I was thinking, we should spend some time discussing ways we could shore up the defense ahead of tomorrow’s—”
“Am I wearing skates?”
Callahan’s strange question catches me off-guard.
“What? No?”
Callahan straightens, and his grip on his beer tightens. His expression sours. “Then why would you think I’d want to talk about hockey right now?
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I swallow hard to keep my composure.
“But it’s important?”
“It’s just Miami,” Callahan dismisses, his eyes following a new pair of women who walk past our table wearing swimsuits and sheer coverups.
“What about—”
“Look Harrison, both of these Florida teams suck.”
Callahan’s confidence doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence. He’s been cocky towards other “scheduled win” teams in the past, and we’ve lost to some of them. He’s also not the guy who has to sometimes deal with over thirty shots on goal.
When the two women disappear from view, Callahan takes a long swig from his beer and glances back to me. He smirks. “What, worried about your season stats if we lose?”
I gawk at him, causing Callahan to roll his eyes.
“Christ, lighten up. It’s a joke. You’re such a mood killer.” He scoffs. “How about you worry about doing your job keeping pucks out of the net.”
From then, it’s like I’m not even there. Callahan’s done with me.
Conversations happen around me, but I’m not part of them. A more outgoing person might have tried again with someone else, but I can’t muster the energy. I’m part of the restaurant’s furniture, the background.
When I can’t stomach it anymore, I push off the table, my chair screeching and drawing the attention of some of my other teammates.
My face burns as if I have something to be embarrassed over, and I say goodbye to those who noticed me leaving.
There’s a few waves, a few “see you tomorrow”s, a nod, but no one asks me to join their conversation and stay.
So much for that bright idea.
Sometimes you need a giant flashing neon sign to spell out why you stopped bothering with certain people, but the harsh reminder still hurts. You walk away after feeling gullible. You wonder why you wasted your time.
You know what can’t hurt you? Ice cream. Ice cream has a way of making everything better by numbing the pain. Ice cream doesn’t make shitty comments disguised as “jokes”. Ice cream doesn’t make you feel invisible, and it’s about time I treated myself to some.
Once emergency ice cream has been secured, I wander along Miami beach, searching for a place to sit alone and enjoy the sunset before I eventually return to the hotel. I find a table overlooking a quieter section of the beach.
Thankfully, I at least have my phone on me with my e-reader app installed. My perfect go-to in the event my plan of “hanging out” backfired. Guess some part of me has always known better.
A couple pages into another chapter, however, I receive a text from Eric.
Eric
Goaltender Glenn Hall played 502 consecutive games from 1955 to 1962.
My face lights up, surprised to hear from him. Of all the people I’d want to hang out with on a day off, it would Eric. Braydan, too. Hell, I have a feeling anyone else in the league would make for better companions than some of my teammates.
Me
That’s insane. Don’t think I’ll be beating that record any time soon. What caused him to break the streak?
Eric