Chapter 37
Beckett
“Jesus, Beckett,” Rob says as he climbs onto the first bus the next day. “I was shocked when they said someone had already loaded up. You’re headed to the arena this early?”
“Yeah. Want to make sure I’m good and warm before the game.” I’ve been waiting here for ten minutes. I know two and a half hours before the game is early to warm up, but I need to ramp up slow and steady. Plus, then I have space. I have quiet. I have control.
Rob nods, settling into his seat as I click play on the game film I’m watching on my phone.
The pang of longing hits me as soon as the players on the ice start to move.
Every day since Finley told me we have to go back to a fully professional relationship has been torture.
To be in the same room as her. To hear her pre-game speeches.
To listen to her game analysis. To catch glimpses of her dark hair around each corner at the arena.
It’s torture seeing her every day and pretending I don’t care about her.
Forcing myself to act like she isn’t even my friend, when it feels like she’s captured a part of my soul.
It’s excruciating.
And the worst part is, I can’t even be mad at her. Because I understand. What we did was reckless. Stupid.
And fucking amazing.
And now hockey, my one and only refuge from the storm of torment inside me, is a constant reminder of the woman I lost—the one I might never have truly had to begin with. So I’m forcing myself to focus more. No distractions. To burrow so deeply into my routines that no one and nothing can touch me.
It’s kind of working.
Already in my workout clothes, I head straight to the training room, intent on spending ample time on my mobility work. It’s all part of my new-and-improved plan. The room is blissfully quiet, the only sound my breathing timed with my movement.
When the next bus arrives an hour later, the room becomes too full, too loud, as men start doing some light warm-up jogging, sprints, and bounding work. I move on, rather than stay, as the other guys start to get warm.
“Sewer?” Li asks as I walk by, holding up the soccer ball the guys will use to help them get warm.
I shake my head. Sewer ball can get chaotic, and right now, I need to stay in control.
Hours later, I mentally check my pain levels as I go through my taping routine, making sure there isn’t any crumpling or bunching to throw the feel of the puck off once I’m out on the ice.
The thwip thwip of the tape pulling off its roll is the soundtrack to my meditation as I evenly cover my stick, leaving the tiniest hint of the toe showing.
I inspect my work, and when I realize there’s a slight bunch in the center, I fight the rage that wants to bubble out of me. A completely inappropriate response to a minor inconvenience. With a jerk, I pull it all off, starting again.
Once I have it perfect, I do a few minutes of puck-handling drills before finally taking three minutes to do some mindfulness and breathing work to ensure I’m in the right headspace before we begin.
***
I slide back in the zone, tracking the Ironhounds’ center as he looks to press their advantage.
“I’ve got middle!” I yell to Volkov in the net.
“Middle’s yours.”
“I’ve got puck!” Li calls.
When Li and I hustle over the boards for a shift change, I gulp down some water, making sure to track my pain levels. Low. We’ve been up since J.D. flew in a goal five minutes into the first period, so I’ve played it safe. Smart.
No unnecessary hits. No unnecessary movement. Just smart, sound hockey.
After the first score, the game became an offensive struggle.
Both goalies were on tonight, and everyone struggled to find the holes.
When the final buzzer sounds, we win with J.D.
’s single goal. Beating Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania is a crucial win, and I climb onto the ice with my team to celebrate, but I opt to stay on the outskirts of the celebrations, rather than jumping into the fray.
As soon as we’re in the locker room, I pull off my gloves and helmet before shoving on my headphones.
I’ve never been a big music guy, always content to listen to whatever is playing in the locker room, but headphones give a certain go-fuck-yourself energy that I am desperate for right now.
I can’t focus when guys are chirping constantly about inane things like whether they should get two or three lines for their new tattoo, or if they’re going to the club the bunnies like to hang out at, or trying to meet real women in normal bars.
And if we’re going to make it to the playoffs, I need to focus.
I’ve gotten most of my pads off and am working the tape off my socks when Coach Blake’s double knock sounds at the locker room door. My pulse jumps slightly at the sight of her, but I don’t let in any of the feelings that are trying to come along with it.
She made the right call, I remind myself for what seems like the millionth time.
“Well, gentlemen, that was a hard one, but we pulled it out. Our shots on goal numbers were right where they needed to be. Volkov, defense, excellent work out there. The plane will be wheels up in three hours, the bus in two. We’ve kept ourselves alive and in the hunt for this long—we’re not letting the Bears stop us.
Morning skate and then film tomorrow. Late schedule since it’s going to be a long night. One more win and we’re in the running.”
I slide my headphones back on and move through my usual post-game routine.
Now is not the time to cut corners or do anything but follow the plan—and to make sure I recover thoroughly, I’ve added even more post-game time to my plan.
I’ve been on the bike for longer than any of the other guys when Larsen taps on my shoulder.
“What?” I say, making sure to only slide one of my headphones off.
“Okay, no need to bite my head off. A couple of guys are coming over for dinner tomorrow. I wanted to see if you were in before I told my chef final numbers.”
“No.”
He raises an eyebrow when I don’t give him anything more than that, and when I pull my headphones back on, he rolls his eyes and walks away.
Getting to know the team is an important part of my strategy for next year, but they clearly like me. Larsen invited me to dinner. I don’t need to eat with them every night.
If I let this injury slow me down, I might not even be on the ice next year.
And then I’ll lose my career and my new friends in one go.
So, I have to stay healthy this season. Perform well.
Position myself to take on a leadership role next year.
And to do that, it requires one hundred percent focus on getting prepared, mentally and physically, for every game.
Deviation is dangerous.
So, connection is going to have to wait—even if no one knows exactly how long this season will last.
I grit my teeth through the ten minutes in the ice bath, thankful I’m the only one icing today.
Young guys always think the ice bath is optional, but for me, it never is.
Then, I find the stretching area, moving through my hip mobility exercises twice before working my hamstrings, glutes, lower back, and ankles.
Once I get through the whole set, I do it again.
When it’s my time for PT, I head over to the tables, stripping to my boxers before I climb on.
“How you feeling today, Kane?” Glenn asks, working my hip.
I bite down hard on my back teeth to fight a grimace as his fingers hit a sore spot and work it.
“Fine.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
“Range of motion was barely limited. I had a bit of a delay getting into my sprint, but I don’t know if that’s mental or physical.”
“Any pain?”
“I’m an old hockey player. I always hurt.”
The PT laughs, and I flash back to the last time I told that truth disguised as a joke: with the doctor when I first joined the Yeti.
Taking a deep breath, I try a different tactic this time. “It’s at a three now. It hit five during the third period, but then I got that longer rest, and it was back to a four when I went back out.”
By the time I finish with Glenn, almost everyone else is on the bus for the airport, so I quickly shower and dress before grabbing a plate of food to eat on the bus.
The ride is short, and as I climb onto the plane and settle in, the rest of the team following me on and taking their seats, all I can think about is the next part of my routine. It’s late, and everyone is mostly subdued. My screen illuminates my face as the cabin lights dim overhead.
Larsen looks over at me from the other side of the aisle. “Are you watching film right now, Kane? Isn’t it past your bedtime, old man?”
“I can sleep when I’m dead, Rookie,” I say, pulling my headphones off my shoulders.
Plus, there’s more I still need to do. Especially if there’s a good chance I only have one more season.
So as the plane takes off, the engines humming outside my window, I log on to the Wi-Fi and keep watching the film reel Doctor Pearce put together for the Bears.
I look up when the film ends, shocked to find over an hour has passed, and the rest of the team is asleep.
My hip sends a small shock down my leg as I shift in my seat.
Switching to the appropriate app on my phone, I schedule another PT session for tomorrow morning before skate starts.
Then, with a sigh, I book sessions for every day this week.