Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Inside the dressing room, the anger from the ice has picked up again in full force, but the target is no longer the Los Angeles Grizzlies. The frustration has shifted inward. I keep my head down and change silently as full-on tantrums erupt among my teammates.
Glenn Callahan has broken countless sticks and rattled off every curse word in the dictionary thanks to his fury. “If we hadn’t gone down two points in the first fucking period, maybe we could’ve gotten some fucking momentum!”
“We wouldn’t have been down by two if you hadn’t taken a dumbfuck penalty!” a defenseman answers back, unafraid to stand against him.
A flurry of fiery responses follow. Every point of criticism adds fresh kerosene to the dumpster fire.
The shouting and bickering must carry throughout the entire arena.
What little “leadership” remains in the dressing room refuses to silence the upheaval, and so all the hairline fractures we’ve been ignoring for the past season snap and form deep fissures.
The series is over. Our season is over. All of this fighting is meaningless. We lost. No amount of snapped sticks, thrown gear, and bickering can change what happened tonight.
Sandoval rises from the bench and casts a large shadow thanks to his towering height and bulky size. He lets out a bellow, silencing the cacophony of voices and pointed fingers from its force. His knuckles are bone white from clenching so hard, and a vein in his neck threatens to burst.
“You idiots left the goalie out to dry, plain and fucking simple!”
Stillness falls over the dressing room, even after Sandoval drops back onto the bench to return to his gear. All the oxygen has left the room, the raging fire snuffed out.
I never thought Sandoval, of all people, would stand up for me. I used to think Sandoval didn’t care about our relationship as a goalie tandem. From how little he talks during training with our goalie coach, from how frigid his post-win celebrations have been, I thought he hated me, honestly.
But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s just more shy than I gave him credit for. Maybe this could be a fresh start for us as goaltenders. Maybe the companionship I’ve been looking for from a teammate has been there all along, waiting for me to give it a chance to prosper.
When Callahan opens his mouth to speak again, he only manages to utter one word before being cut off by Stephenson, one of our veteran forwards who’s been with the Comets even longer than me.
“Literally shut up!” he warns. It’s the only ounce of leadership this team has seen tonight, but it’s too little too late. “Don’t you guys get it? It’s over and done with. Go home and learn from this. Be fucking better.”
Players leave in record time. No one wants to be here any longer. I can’t say I blame them. Not even our coaching staff came to yell at us to quit making an embarrassment of ourselves.
Getting swept in the Conference Final sucks.
There’s no easy way around it, no sugar-coating, no euphemism to make it any less painful.
For some of my teammates, this sting will carry on through summer, but no one will carry the burden of this loss harder than me.
Loss is part of life—I’ve certainly experienced my share—but it’s no less heartbreaking when it happens.
What happened tonight is the opposite of losing with grace and dignity.
Sandoval and I are the last remaining players in the dressing room. Maybe taking off the gear has been as hard for him as it’s been for me. We were the last line of defense, and we couldn’t overcome the challenge. Neither of us could be the hero our team needed.
“Hey, uh, Sandoval…” I mutter, causing his attention to snap away from his chest armor. “Thanks for, you know, standing up for me back there. I really appreciate it.”
Sandoval’s brows narrow, and his usual stone features shift as he breaks into a snarl.
“Are you serious?” He shakes his head. “I was the one who finished in net, not you. I’m the Comets goalie. I had to clean up your fucking mess. So thanks for that.”
My face burns with embarrassment, and I hurry to collect my belongings. Why did I say something? Why would I ever think he gave a shit about me? All evidence pointed to the contrary, and yet I still…
The sooner I get the hell away from him, this dressing room, this arena, the better.
When I’m able to make my retreat at last, I leave the dressing room and head for the player parking lot.
I try my best to keep a straight face all the way to my car.
Seated alone, away from my teammates and staff, away from the fans and the media, I finally let down my walls over the night’s events.
I bury my face into my steering wheel and sob ugly tears.
Loss is a part of life, but why does it keep happening to me? What have I done to the universe?
A loud horn blares from somewhere else inside the parking garage, startling me.
Afraid of being caught having a mental breakdown inside my car by another player or staff member, I shove my keys into the ignition and drive.
The thought of driving and driving until the Chicago city limits are in the rearview mirror crosses my mind.
Instead, I end up at my apartment instead, resigned to a home which has never felt like one.
I drop my keys onto the counter and wander from one room to the next without direction, an earthbound ghost haunting a graveyard.
Opening and closing the fridge, starving but too tired to eat.
Gross and sweaty from a brutal game, but too exhausted to take a shower.
Head full of static, mouth full of cotton, I collapse in bed, falling face first into the comforter in my street clothes. My phone chimes, and begrudgingly I pull it out of my hoodie pocket to find a text from my dad.
Dad
Hey, James. I just want you to know I love you. I’m so proud of you for getting this far. I know this isn’t the result you wanted, but there’s always next year.
Next year.
My brows narrow. What does he mean ‘next year’? There are no guarantees in sports, in life. This could have been our only shot, and we blew it. What the hell does he know about ‘next year’ when he’s never played a sport at this level?
You still don't get it. Don’t even pretend to try. You never will.
If I sent a text with those words to my dad, I would no doubt destroy whatever goodwill I had tried to garner with my apology weeks ago.
This isn’t my dad’s fault. He’s trying his best amidst a miserable situation; no parent ever plans on being left to deal with their child’s emotional baggage alone.
And that’s what my dad and I are—alone.
I imagine my teammates are home with their families, their girlfriends, their friends. Probably getting shitfaced to take the edge off our season ending loss. Whatever their poison, they all have people who care about them in the face of a terrible outcome.
What do I have? Nothing. Who do I have? No one. It’s just myself and the silence.
Fresh tears spring to my eyes. I reach for my pillow and pull it close, hugging it for comfort, wishing it was another warm body. Is it wrong to wish it was Eric’s? Of course. Eric wouldn’t want anything to do with a fucking loser like me.
And because I’m Fate’s plaything, my phone chimes again with another text. Naively, I tilt my phone and tap the screen, causing it to light up.
Eric
I’m here if you want to talk.
I nudge my phone away and groan. What’s the point? What will talking to him accomplish other than make me feel more humiliated and isolated?
Any other night, I would have jumped at the opportunity to pick his brain and listen to him talk shop about goaltending. Any other night, I would gladly let him be a soothing voice in my ear. Any other night, I would give anything just to feel connected to him.
But not tonight. I can’t stomach his pity.
I need him in other ways he can’t provide—strong arms holding me tight, fingers running through my hair.
A warm chest I could lean into. A steady heartbeat to silence my doubts and lull me to sleep.
Soft words whispered into the night, You did everything you could, James.
Eric can’t give the intimacy I need because he lives hundreds of miles away in another state. Even if he were here by some miracle, it doesn’t matter. I’m not his type; I’m not a woman. We’re just friends—long-distance ones—and I need more than a pat on the back.
It’s not Eric’s fault. The burden of being in love with what I can’t have is mine.
There’s an alternative to being alone on a terrible night: the cold, endless abyss of the internet. Why listen to half-hearted attempts at understanding from my dad or pity from Eric when the cacophony of millions of strangers will suffice?
Without an ounce of self-restraint, I open up my usual social media app and look through the top posts in the #CometsvsGrizzlies feed. When my eyes scan the top post, a trapdoor opens in my chest. This was a mistake. A gigantic mistake.
lmao imagine being Eric Sinclair and seeing the beer league goaltending that bricked your team. How salty would you be right now? I would be SO livid.
— RedButtonPresser
There’s a way to save myself from the fall by closing the app right now and turning off my phone. But I can’t—I won’t because I have nothing better to do.
An insidious voice in my head compels me to stay rooted in place, to dig deeper.
You deserve this, it whispers. Keep scrolling. You deserve this.
So I read on. Post after post from fans, haters, and hockey media reacting to the dumpster fire of a game.
This is some Jekyll and Hyde goaltending from Harrison holy shit. It is an elimination game my guy, tend the goal like it
— TimHortonsEnjoyer68
James Harrison? More like James Embarrison.
— Ice2MeetU
Amidst the vitriol are screenshots of me from the game’s national broadcast—benched, discarded, unnecessary. My thousand yard stare with a camera in my face and a commentator at my side.
Does he really have to sit right by the commentator and hear him shitting on him all night? The fuck???
— PerpetualBrokenStick
Okay… I’m a diehard Grizzlies fan, but this is brutal to watch…
— GrizzlyGamerGirl
CAN THE CAMERA PAN AWAY FROM HIM JFC!! MAN IS SECONDS FROM CRYING ON NATIONAL TV
— cometsfan4life
I’ve never seen a coach face-heel turn on a goalie the way the Comets coach did. And in the middle of the WCF? Like, you sure dude? Really just gonna send in your backup goalie completely cold? Great idea lmao
— DiscoInburno
#JamesHarrison deserves better and idgaf if you think this situation is his fault. The Comets wouldn’t be here without him. He should have been able to finish the series, period.
— OriginalOliverOwen
On and on. Post after post after post. Gloating, confusion, mockery, sympathy—it doesn’t matter the intent behind the words.
You would think there would be an end to the deep, dark tunnel, but there isn’t.
There’s only deeper, darker depths. The words sink into my skin, skittering over muscle and bone, penetrating deep into my skull.
I invite them in. I let them invade my mind and make a home there.
My phone buzzes in hand, startling me out of my mind-numbing stupor. A text from Robbie, my agent, appears at the top of my phone’s screen.
Robbie
Hey. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for how the series went. I hope you made it home okay. Do you want me to reschedule your media appearance later today?
His question gives me pause. I sit up in bed and wipe at my puffy eyes.
In the span of reading a text message, my brain orients to my new reality.
The Comets’ hockey season is over, and now it’s time for post-playoffs media availabilities and season wrapups.
Interviews, questions without answers. Expectations from the media, from fans, hell, even my teammates hoping to understand what went wrong tonight.
A streak of blazing sunlight peaks through my curtains. I’ve wasted hours of my life scrolling through social media and crying all night. Useless.
Putting off the interview would be a bad look, so I drag myself out of bed and text Robbie back.
Me
No. I’ll be there.
Even though the post-season interview is the last place I want to be, it’s still an obligation, a responsibility as a member of the team.
No one wants to be under the microscope, hyperanalyzed for the masses in the wake of a painful loss, but it’s part of the job of being a professional athlete.
My mom warned me when I was younger there would be difficult interviews. This will be one of them.