Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Felix
This year, dressing for our first official game of the season brings me a deep joy it never has before.
Not long ago, I almost lost this, and now I’m more firmly entrenched in this team and my career than I ever have been.
Even better, this season, we might actually have a chance at not being the worst team.
Given that our league only has four teams, it’s a real statement of how shitty we’ve been that we’re always dead last. We get to the playoffs—because only four teams—and we’re always last there too.
It’s pretty much a running joke in the league, but our fans are still hopeful, because when there’s only four teams, it’s supposedly a lot easier to come back from a “rough patch.”
This year, though, I think it might be possible for us to deserve our playoffs spot—maybe even win.
Practice has been different from how it used to be.
Coach Locke is focused on our skills development and drilling plays, not on how hard we can hit and whether we can cause chaos on the ice.
We’re doing better as individual players, but more importantly, we’re playing better together as a team, and our lines are working cohesively.
The impact that’s had on the attitude in the room is huge. The mood is better overall, and I think I could actually like some of the guys who I’d previously written off as meathead goons. We were all suffering under Franks’s leadership, it seems.
I’m willing to take a lot of blame for how bad my relationships with my teammates had gotten.
Or at least, I’m willing to blame my hormones for it.
I can totally see how being thumped with a hockey stick, my fists, and/or any blunt object I might be able to lay hands on would make a person not like me.
Some of the guys will never be able to let that go, and I get it.
But the others have seen the difference in me lately, have seen how focused I am and how much better I connect with them, and they’re ready to give me another shot.
It helps that they’re not as phenomenally stupid as I always thought.
Well… not all of them. Locke is slowly weeding out the guys who were just here for their muscle and violent tendencies and replacing them with some smart, eager rookies and a couple of experienced, steady beer league veterans.
We don’t have a draft in our league. If you’ve played in a rec or school league, you get scouted and offered a contract, or you register for an open tryout.
The problem with that is that most of the players with great talent avoid the Warhammers as if we’re riddled by plague.
After all, who wants to join a team that’s not only famous for losing, but also for being a toxic mess?
That’s all changing now.
“You ready?” Gline asks. It’s a little hard to hear him with his mouth so far away from me, seeing as he’s currently holding a handstand position and has been for the past five minutes.
Impressive—guy’s got incredible core strength and stability—but also…
what’s the point? He’s gotta play a full sixty minutes in net soon.
Why’s he wasting energy doing this? Not to mention, that’s a lot of blood rushing to the brain.
I guess some things are only meant to be understood by goalies.
“I’m ready,” I say confidently. “The Morningstars are in for a surprise tonight.”
“Yeah!” Vitter yells, surprising us both.
Gline even wobbles slightly before regaining his composure—and balance.
Vitter pumps his fist in the air. “We’re gonna shock the points off ’em.
” He grins at my confused expression. “Get it? Points instead of pants, because we’re gonna get the points for winning tonight. ”
I’m not sure what surprises me more, that Vitter has a sense of humor, that it’s a bad one, or that he’s joking around with me like we’re old buddies. It doesn’t suck, though.
“Got it.” I hold my fist up for him to bump. “Good one, bruh.”
“You’re pretty cool, ya know,” he tells me as he bumps. “At first I thought you weren’t, and I hadta tell my sis she was wrong about you.”
“How was she wrong?” Gline asks curiously. I wait for the answer, because what?
“When I signed my contract, she told me to stick close to Ansas because he’s smart and could be a good friend.” He shrugs while I fight the feeling of being punched in the chest. “I couldn’t see it then and told her so. But now I get it. I want to be a smart player, not just a big one, ya know?”
“Yeah, I know,” I say with a suddenly dry mouth. “You’re doing pretty good at it. Good hockey IQ.” It’s true—he might not be the brightest guy off the ice, but his puck sense is solid, especially now that he’s allowed to use it.
He beams. “I’m gonna tell my sis you said that. She’s here tonight to watch—we’re gonna win, right? She’s never seen us win before, and I’d kinda like to make it happen.”
Gline curls his body down, placing his feet precisely on the floor, and then straightens and meets my gaze. In his eyes, I see the same things I’m feeling: excitement, determination, and hope.
I turn back to Vitter. “That’s the plan.”
The plan might have been a bit ambitious.
By the end of the second period, we’re tired and demoralized. It’s not that we’re playing badly, because we’re not. We’re actually playing better than we ever have before. The problem is that we just can’t get any fucking traction.
For every goal we score—and there have been two—the Morningstars score one also.
They’re stronger than us defensively, and it’s only because Gline has apparently gained the ability to stretch his limbs to ridiculous lengths that they’ve only managed to score another two on top of that.
Seriously, if doing handstands is what allows him to do this, then I’ll be right there to spot him whenever the fuck he needs.
We’re playing better than we used to, but it’s still not good enough.
“Alright, listen up,” our captain bellows. He’s been talking quietly with Coach, but now I guess it’s time for our pep talk before we head back out there to finish getting slaughtered. “This attitude you’re giving right now fucking sucks, and it’s gonna stop.”
This is new.
“Yeah, the ’Stars are winning, but only by two goals. There’s a whole fucking period left. You think we can’t score two goals in a period? Of course we fucking can!”
I mean… theoretically, yes. I can’t remember a time when we have…. But then, I also can’t remember a time we played this well against the Morningstars.
My back straightens. I’ve already scored one goal tonight, and it made me feel like a god. I can do that again.
“Shut the fuck up with this ‘wah wah, we’re losers’ bullshit. I got a kid at home who doesn’t want to come to my games because all we do is lose, and I’m fucking fed up with that. I wanna win something, and tonight’s a good time to start. So you dickheads better dig the fuck in and make it happen.”
I never thought our captain was particularly good at the encouragement or inspiration parts of his job—honestly, I didn’t think he was all that good at any part of his job.
But I guess I was wrong, because all around the room, tired, discouraged faces are settling into lines of determination and focus.
Yancey jerks his chin at Gline. “You’ve been a fucking wall tonight, man. Thirty-two shots blocked so far. Think you can hold them off for a little longer?”
Gline scoffs. “Like it’s hard.”
Coach folds his arms across his chest and smirks.
Despite our best efforts, we lose.
It fucking burns me up inside to lose in a motherfucking shootout. We’ve been working so hard on learning to play as a team, a cohesive unit, and the game comes down to a shootout. There’s no team effort there.
Gline looks like someone pissed in his cereal and then made him eat it.
He managed to hold off another eleven shots.
He’s a damn superhero, and if anybody here even thinks to blame him for letting in that last goal, I’m gonna forget every warning Coach gave me and go full slasher kitty on their asses.
But I’m pretty sure Gline’s the one blaming himself, which is kind of funny, because I blame myself.
I can do better than this. I need to be a better teammate, be more vocal on the ice when I see opportunities and potential problems. I’m used to keeping my head down and bullying my way through games, and that’s not good enough anymore.
My phone is vibrating in my cubby, but I can’t bring myself to check it. All I want to do is wallow in this loss for a little while, stinking of my own game sweat and failure. I forgot how much more it hurts to lose when you’re hoping you can win.
“Gentlemen,” Coach calls, and the low, despondent grumble falls silent. “Well done tonight.”
Someone, I can’t tell who, squeaks in shock. I know exactly how he feels, because since when does a coach congratulate his team on losing?
“The loss is disappointing,” he continues, “which it should be. It should make you angry. It should hurt. That’s what will make you hungrier for the win.
” He looks around the room, meeting each of our gazes.
“We lost tonight, and that fucking sucks. But you were in this game right until the very end. You took it to a shootout. When was the last time this team did that? Fuck, when was the last time this team took a game to OT, or even had a tied score and the crowd screaming in the last few minutes of the third? You played an epic fucking game tonight, boys, and you’re going to have an epic fucking season.
” He pauses to let that sink in. “We’ve got some work to do.
Tonight showed us we have some weaknesses, some holes that need to be filled, but it also showed us we’ve got what it takes to fix those.
Get some rest tonight, because when we get home, we won’t rest until we win. ”
I join the roar from my teammates, surprised I have it in me and that one little speech was enough to lift my despondent mood.
The thing is, though, Coach is right. This was one game, the first game of the season.
We have plenty of time to make up for it, and we’re going to get better.
We are better, because for sure we’ve never played like this before.
We scored those goals we needed in the third.
We went the whole damn game without any dirty play—the two penalties we got were inconsequential, the kind of thing every team expects to get—and we have absolutely never done that before.
I didn’t get angry. I almost did, when one of the Morningstars players tripped me. In the past, I would have gone after him and earned my own penalty—probably a major, or even a game misconduct. Not this time. Instead, I stayed focused, took advantage of the power play, and fucking scored.
So we lost one game. It’s disappointing, but it’s over. No team wins every game; it’s just not possible. The trick is to win enough to prove you’re better than the other teams, and we’ve still got a chance to do that.
Feeling better, I pull off my jersey and toss it in the laundry hamper, then bend to untie my skates. My phone buzzes again, and as soon as my skates are off, I reach for it.
Riley:
Holy shit, Uncle Fe! Two goals! TWO GOALS!!!!! Fucking epic!
Jared:
That was insane! I was on the edge of my seat until the end. The Warhammers have a shot this year. Raeulfr is already planning to come to more games. Great work tonight—you’ll win the next one!
Mom:
I hear congratulations are in order! So proud of you!
Mom:
Okay, Riley just told me you didn’t actually win, so I’m sorry if my message was insensitive. We’re still so proud of you for “an epic game.” Love you.
Dáithí:
I’m still learning hockey, but I know goals are good, so well done! And you didn’t even have to break your stick on anyone’s head!
Jory:
My son is screeching about how cool you are, so thought I’d remind you that you used to cry when we turned on the air conditioner. Good job on those goals, little bro.
Ari:
Stop blaming yourself. You played an amazing game and scored twice, and I’m so proud I can’t stop smiling. Couldn’t decide if I should offer a congratulatory bj or a commiserating one, so you can have both.
Ari:
Miss you.
My breath stutters in my chest. I’ve felt like I’m on shaky ground with Ari lately—not when it comes to sex.
He’s been everything I need and want there.
But even though we’ve been spending all our free time together, there’s no denying he’s withholding something.
He’s willing to give me everything I ask for, except a glimpse into what makes him tick.
At first I thought it might be trauma from losing his home—fair—but he talks about the “anomalies” and what they did to his planet, about people he knew who were lost. It’s only when I try to ask anything more personal that he shuts down.
But he misses me, and that has to mean something. Right?