19. Line Changes
LINE CHANGES
brETT
It’s been a tough week.
I’m trying to stay focused, but Chelsea’s on my mind more than I’d like. More than I want her to be. So much for all my big talk about hockey being my only focus.
And now is really not the time to be distracted.
We’re three games into the road trip—three losses—and the mood in the dressing room is low.
This isn’t the result any of us want, but it’s especially bad for me, considering I all but promised Craig London I’m his ticket to the postseason.
I don’t need to hand him any more checkmarks for the Trade My Ass column on the spreadsheet of hockey stats vs.
behavioral issues I’m sure he’s keeping.
Fuck.
I reach up the sleeve of my jersey and adjust my elbow pad.
The warmup was rough. Didn’t hit the net with any of my ritual slap shots, and 0-3 is never a good sign. Especially since Beau Remington and I just haven’t really clicked yet. I know it’s only been four games, but…
I like the guy. I do. But two years into his NHL career, he’s still adjusting from the college game to the pro grind.
He doesn’t trust my style of game—I like to be part of the action, force my opponents into making mistakes. He’d pair better with a more stay-at-home defenseman than I’ll ever be.
Coop’s right. Our D is a mess and—
“Alright, everybody listen up.” Coach Freeson claps his hands once to get our attention, but since no one's really talking, the silence falls instantly.
He opens his pre-game speech with a bombshell. “Remington and Yarrow, you’re not playing tonight. That means Sillinger and Gray are my top pair. The rest of the lineup is as usual.”
Ho-ly. Shit.
The announcement hits like a truck.
No one wants to get benched. Especially not in a late scratch that has nothing to do with injury or illness.
Remy looks pissed. Not that I blame him. I would be, too. It’s a tough pill to swallow this close to game time.
And Liam Yarrow? He just looks resigned as he pulls off his jersey.
Coach starts talking again, and I risk a glance at my new defensive partner, but Gray’s staring straight ahead. His jaw is tight, and his mouthguard isn’t going to have much to work with if he keeps grinding his molars like that.
I sigh.
Things with Gray have been chilly but fine. He avoids me, and I return the favor. It’s been working just fine. Too bad that coping mechanism just got blown to hell now that Coach has decided to shake things up.
And the worst part is, I think it’s the right play.
Gray and me? It pains me to admit it, but we think the same.
Read the play the same. The fact that he shoots left and I shoot right basically makes us a dream pairing.
I’m kind of surprised it’s taken four games for Coach to make this happen.
Maybe Ryan or Hoff said something about our off-ice clashes.
I hope not. If the coaching staff has been tiptoeing around us like we’re divas on the verge of temper tantrums, there’s no chance of me getting signed again.
Maybe Gray can weather the prima donna label, but I need to prove that I’m a company man, a workhorse, or I’ll be on the first plane out of town once our season wraps.
Sadly, I think Gray would be thrilled about that, so I probably shouldn’t count on him to make this pairing work as well in practice as it does in theory.
I miss the majority of Coach’s speech and I barely clock the walk from the locker room through the tunnel. Too in my head, I guess.
“Alright?” Hoff asks as we take the ice.
The music is loud, but the Dallas fans are louder.
“All good.” The fact that he asked probably means it’s a lie, but I know he only did to make sure I tune in, and I appreciate it.
I spend the national anthem shifting my weight from skate to skate and the gentle rocking helps me get in the zone, even with the camera operator in my face. I like starting a game, having the ice under my skate blades before that first whistle blows.
The lights go up and bass pounds through the speakers as the announcer riles up the hometown crowd.
The refs group up for a quick huddle as the rink crew rolls up the carpet where some local kid just sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” There’s some scattered booing as our starting lineup is announced, making the pairing between Gray and me official.
Speaking of, he glides into position beside me without a word. We haven’t made eye contact since warmup.
The referees and linesmen take their positions. I feel the weight of it. The calm before the storm. Even-strength shift against their first line. Everyone sets up for the puck drop.
And we’re off.
The music cuts off abruptly as they win the face-off, sweeping the puck backward, and their defense dumps the puck into our end.
Gray and I both chase, him to the wall, me to the net.
We should be talking, calling it out, but we’ve been avoiding each other so long that communication doesn’t come naturally.
“Boards,” I finally mutter.
“Got it.” His voice is sharp, low, clipped.
One of the opposing forwards comes flying in. “On your left,” I warn Gray.
He takes a hit and absorbs it like a pro, digging the puck loose with one hand while the other keeps the guy off-balance. It’s textbook. And suddenly, I remember what this could look like. Why Coach wanted to try us together.
I’m behind the net before he flicks the puck there, just like I knew he would, and when I wheel around, he’s already gliding into position near the blue line.
We break out clean.
One pass, one tape-to-tape connection, and we’re flying.
I trail behind the rush, watch Gray dump the puck deep, then hang back to cover while our forwards chase.
We reset, and the play comes back our way.
Dallas is fast. Coordinated. The kind of team that can make you look stupid if you hesitate for even a second. And right now, I’ve got a winger bearing down on me, trying to catch me flat-footed.
I pivot. Force him wide. Wait for backup.
Gray slides in behind me, reads the angle perfectly, and steps up with a poke check that strips the puck clean. Doesn’t even slow down. Just turns and moves it up to our winger in one smooth motion.
Damn.
We make it through the shift without giving up a shot. And when their goalie covers the puck and the whistle blows, we both head off.
I bump gloves with Orlov as he and his partner take the ice with fresh legs, following Gray as we load into the bench. “You gonna start talking out there, or are we doing this Jedi-style?”
He shoots me a glare. “You just worry about yourself. I got this.”
For the first time, there’s no real heat in his words. Feels like progress.
The defensive coach slaps us both on the shoulder pads as we take our seats.
Decker’s grinning when he reaches out with his stick to tap me on the shin.
And I can’t lie. It feels good to shut down all those internet naysayers claiming this trade is proof I’m washed up.
“Jedi-style,” Gray mumbles beside me, shaking his head. Lifting the water bottle, he takes a swig and spits a mouthful of water at our feet. “Nice Star Wars reference, Boomer.”
I huff a laugh.
Fucking prick.
For the first time all week, I believe we just might pull this game out.
CHELSEA
Brett’s been gone on his road trip for a week already, with a week left to go.
I can’t stop replaying the wounded look on his face when he walked out of my house. I owe him an explanation, but every version I type up looks flimsy on screen. This apology deserves more gravitas than three bouncing dots can provide.
I need to see him. To say what I need to say, face-to-face, and make sure he believes me.
Normally, I’d call Shanna and overanalyze how to do that. Instead, I stare at our own silent text thread. The I’m sorry I typed four days ago is still sitting there as a draft. Unsent.
Shanna and I have fought before, but this time feels different. Like for the first time in our long friendship, there’s a disconnect between us.
Like I’ve changed.
And maybe I have. My relationship with Dustin—especially the way it ended—was humiliating, and it damaged me in so many ways. Ways I didn’t even realize until being with Brett showed me how things could be.
So to have Shanna judging it, judging him, well, I know she means well, but it feels like she’s rejecting the person I’m becoming. Or at least the person I want to be.
And it makes me wonder whether our friendship has room for that version of me. Because the old me could end our fight right now. All it would take is one stupid meme to break the ice. We’d talk until one of us made the other laugh, and everything would slide right back into place.
I guess that’s the problem.
I don’t want to laugh this away. I want her to understand why comparing Brett to Dustin hurt so much. I owe her that. But explaining it means telling her what my relationship with Dustin was really like. It means admitting Brett isn’t just the world’s best bad decision. He’s more than that to me.
And I’m not ready to say either of those things aloud. Not yet. So I set my phone down again.
Settling back on the couch, I grab the remote and flip through channels to distract myself.
It doesn’t work.
I’ve only pressed the button four times when the Wolfpack game flickers on screen.
And of course I pause, my thumb hovering over the remote.
It feels a little transgressive to watch. I haven’t been to a game since my mom left. She hated hockey. Complained about how much of her life it took up, between my dad’s career and my brother’s youth hockey career. My dad wanted me to play, too, but my mom was against it. So I didn’t.
But tonight I don’t care what she’d think. I need the noise. I need him.
They’re playing in Chicago.
I turn it up and let the sounds of the arena fill the room. The roar of the crowd, the clatter of sticks, the low rumble of the announcers. It’s oddly comforting and reminds me of some of the best pieces of my childhood.
It’s kind of cool, seeing the guys I work with out there doing their thing.
And then the camera stops on him.
Brett looks like a force to be reckoned with, all kitted up, while the announcers talk about him joining the roster and how the Wolfpack defense has struggled to be a cohesive force during the front end of this road trip. Their criticisms barely register.
I miss him.
I wish I didn’t, but I can’t stop it either.
Sigh.
So much for being a sexy femme fatale who picks up hot men in bars, uses them for pleasure, and never gets emotionally involved.
I’ve got girlfriend material written all over me.
The game’s back underway, and Chicago is all over us. Lincoln makes a great stop but can’t control the rebound. I’m holding my breath as Chicago sets up again, but then Brett intercepts a pass and sends the puck up the boards to Parker Nash.
I exhale, and my shoulders relax for the first time in a week.
The camera cuts away from him too quickly, already chasing another play, but the emotion in my chest remains.
I don’t change the channel until the end of the game.