2. Cameron
TWO
Cameron
Not again.
Standing at center ice, my eyes on the scoreboard as they showed the game-winning goal for Boston, all my exhausted brain could keep playing on a loop was…
Not again. Our barn was quiet as a tomb save for the few Rebels fans who had made the trip from the east coast to the west. They were loud. They were happy. Our fans? Not so much. And rightfully so. We’d fucked up once more.
My sight flicked from the chaos on the screen over my head to the desolation on the ice. Off in one corner were the Boston Rebels, this year’s Cup champs, ebullient, some weeping with joy. And then there was the Storm.
Our goalie Phillipe was still splayed out in his crease, belly down, the grill of his mask resting on the ice, the very image of dejection.
A stuffed storm cloud bounced over to me.
There were several on the ice now, our fans’ way of telling us that we sucked.
Which, yeah, we all kind of were feeling that vibe—thanks gang.
My teammates were stunned—shock and grief playing on their faces. Our captain, Charles Zhang, seemed to have shaken off the stupor of a last-minute loss, but we could see right through him.
“Next year, guys,” I could hear him saying as he skated to each man on the ice.
He moved to Phillipe and got him up on his skates.
The man was devastated. We’d all tried so hard for him, knowing his time in the crease was limited.
He was thirty-eight now. And this might have been his last chance.
Fuck. This sucked, and not in the good way. “Handshakes now.”
Fuck. Me. One of the toughest things to do was get in that line and congratulate the other team on achieving your goal.
But that was what was expected. Hockey players were nothing if not humble good sports.
Inside, we all felt like beating ourselves over our heads with our sticks, but on the outside, we were in a conga line of sorts, only there was no joyous dancing. At least on our side.
Credit to the Rebels, they were good sports. Their captain, Xander Holden, took an extra moment with each Storm player, patting them on the shoulder while telling them that they played one hell of a series.
I wasn’t so sure about that. His freaking team had taken us down in five games.
This last one of the series had been tight, yes, but the previous losses were anything but.
We’d won the first game here at home, lost the second in front of our fans, then flown to Boston where they trounced us, and now here losing again…
it was just fucking shit on a shit stick at a shit barbecue.
“Hey, man. Congratulations,” I said to Austin Rowe, his sweaty face aglow with their well-deserved victory.
His cousins—Jamie, Brady, and Tennant—must be super proud.
My family would be waiting for me to get home, then the calls would start and every single one of them would be proud of me, but they’d also commiserate.
“Great series. We’ll get you next year.”
And so it went, same sentiments, same words, until we were off the ice. The final kick in the gonads was that Boston was getting the Cup on our ice.
The Storm locker room was silent. Men sat on benches, most soaked in sweat, bruised, and injured.
Our defensive line looked as if they’d been run through the grinder.
Ollie, our most seasoned D-man, had played the last two games with a chipped ankle bone from blocking a shot from Marquis Miller.
Jesus, that man had been a thorn in our fucking sides throughout the series.
If he didn’t win the Conn Smythe, I’d eat my skate blade.
Sans condiments. Guess being in love with a prince did things for your scoring.
I’d never felt something that strong for any guy or girl, so all I had to bolster me was the love of my family.
Which sometimes was more than enough and sometimes not nearly enough.
I whipped my helmet into a cubby, not even sure if it was mine, then sat down to rest. God, I was tired. And sore. And a loser.
Again.
A low murmur moved through the men as the coaching staff entered the locker room.
Our head coach, Weston Hudain, stood tall and proud, his disappointment not evident, although we all knew he was busted up inside.
We’d all had so much riding on this series.
This was our year. We were sure of it. Boston had the same idea, though, and they worked just that much harder to achieve that goal.
“Okay, men, I know this is rough,” Coach said, strolling around the oval room as he did when he was speechifying.
“We all worked hard. We all did our best. This year just wasn’t our year.
We’ll come back in the fall and train even harder.
This is a life lesson, men. What you take from this experience will shape you into a more dedicated player.
It will instill a drive in you that will carry us through next season to the finals.
That fire will burn bright. We will lift the Cup next year.
I know this.” He thumped his chest. The other coaches nodded as he spoke.
Coach Huddy gave great speeches. “I’ve come close so many times.
I refuse to give up when the greatest trophy of all trophies is just within reach.
I know it stings now, and it will for a while, but we will pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and regroup.
I thank God every day for giving me a team filled with such professional and driven players.
What you all did out there was out-fucking-standing.
I mean it. Don’t you dare hang your heads.
Be proud of how far we came because I know I’m fucking proud of each one of you. ”
Then he made the rounds, shaking each player’s sweaty hand, dropping into a crouch to whisper to Phillippe, who I was sure was berating himself for not stopping that final shot, as well as a dozen others.
Goalies were a special breed, deep and emotional.
That Phil hadn’t mangled the pipes with his paddle after missing that shot spoke to just how drained he was, emotionally and physically.
I shook Coach’s hand, said the right words, but inside I was hollowed out.
Like the gourds my grandmother emptied out for bird houses.
That was me. Cameron Chavkin, gourd birdhouse.
No one felt like congregating to rehash the loss.
It was too fresh. So, we all showered and changed into suits because losers had to look good when they slunk out of the barn like whipped dogs.
Press time had been particularly brutal.
We all fielded some pretty stupid questions with all the grace we could muster.
How did it feel to lose in the finals again?
Doh, jackass, how do you think it feels?
It sucks. And it hurts. And it makes a man feel like crap.
“Are you okay?” Prez asked as we made our way to our cars, the few fans who weren’t pissed having met us at the players’ entrance.
It was nice to get the love, even if it was strained, and hear them say they were still Storm Riders.
One guy even broke out his cell to play “Riders on the Storm” by Snoop Dogg with The Doors, which a large group of our backers had adopted as their song.
They had T-shirts and fluffy storm clouds with our signatures on them.
Those same gray cloud pillows some of the fans had chucked at us after the loss.
Good thing we weren’t the LA Bricks. Man, I needed some more Snoop and much louder to drown out the crud in my head.
“Yeah, sure, I’m tight.” I replied, giving Prez a weary half-smile. He studied me closely, his head tipping to the side, dark blond hair buzzed tight to his head, thick beard still damp from his shower. “Fuck. I have to shave now.” I reached up to finger my facial hair.
“Not a bad idea,” he teased. They all rode me about my measly beard. I noted the tiny light of humor in his blue eyes, which helped lift the funk. “You good?”
“Yeah, totally good. Just heading home to make a blanket fort where I plan to stay until locker clean-out day.”
That would have to be one big-ass blanket fort. “Sounds good. I’ll be in touch.”
“Hey, if you’re tripping the night fantastic, or whatever that saying is, mind who you take home, okay?”
I nodded. Great, now Prez was riding me about my sex life It wasn’t bad enough that my mother, my twin brother, my sister, and my grandmother gave me grief about being “too free with my favors” as Granny liked to say.
“I’m good.”
Prez gave me a nod that said he had doubts.
I’d never once brought any trouble to this team in any way, so why everyone worried about my enjoyment of the fruits of my talents, I couldn’t say.
It wasn’t my fault men and women wanted to be with me.
Why the hell should I deny myself what they were offering for free on any given night?
Starlets, young actors, musicians, directors, award-winning thespians, Hollywood movers and shakers.
They all wanted to be seen on the arm of, or ice-side, with a Storm player.
That was how the game was played out here in Tinsel Town.
Sports stars were as sought after as movie stars.
“I’m good,” I repeated, then gave him a bump on his shoulder with the side of my fist. Personals bag over my shoulder, I made my way to my matte-blue Mercedes.
I slid behind the wheel, then chucked my bag to the passenger seat, locked the doors, and let my brow drop to the steering wheel.
Then, before the tears set in, I shoved the keys into the ignition, cranked over the engine, and made my exit with all due haste.
I drove around LA for the longest time, unsure of where to go to burn off the funk sitting on my shoulders.
Prez would advise that we all go home, eat something, meditate, and then do yoga in the morning. He was a trippy guy at times.