My Straight Linemate

1. Nolan

NOLAN

Three losses in a row, and Seattle can’t hold a fucking lead. Last night we went into the third period up by three goals and still managed to lose.

Today I can’t make a six-foot pass. If this keeps up, the city should ask for its money back.

The puck hits Bobby Kessler’s left skate instead of his stick. Bobby has played on my line long enough to save it, kicking the puck forward before Caleb can take it. By the time Bobby gets control, the lane has closed and Gunderson is blowing the whistle.

“Again.”

Bobby sends the puck back to me. He’s my closest friend on the team, which means he doesn’t bother pretending that was acceptable. “Tape, Fraser. Aim for the flat part in the middle.”

“I wanted to make sure you were awake.”

“I’m awake. You suck.”

Normally, that gets something better out of me. Today I make a face and skate back into position. He lets me go without another word, and that’s almost as bad as the pass.

Last night’s third period has been playing in my head since the final horn. The first goal starts with a puck I should’ve cleared. On the last one, I chase the wrong guy below the circle and leave the back door open. Other guys made mistakes too, but knowing that doesn’t get mine out of my head.

The team needed me to help stop the slide.

I didn’t. The whole city watched us piss away a game we’d already won, and afterward I sat in my stall with my skates on until the room was nearly empty.

Mostly, I’m pissed at myself. I’ve played bad games before.

I don’t usually bring them to the rink the next morning and let them play the next one for me.

I take the next rep with the puck on my forehand. Caleb gives me the middle, so I cut inside and shoot before he can take it away. The puck misses the net and hits the end boards.

Gunderson looks at me. I look up at the scoreboard even though it’s dark.

“Wasn’t the net,” Anton calls from his crease.

“Useful, thanks.”

“I’m here for you.”

I get back in line, pulling at the cuff of my glove because it feels wrong. The knob at the top of my stick feels wrong too. If I retape it, I’ll only have fresh tape on the same hands, so I leave it alone.

On the next rep, I force a pass through Caleb when the safe play is back to the point. His stick knocks it away without much effort.

“Again,” Gunderson says.

He doesn’t yell. I wish he would.

This is how somebody gets dropped down a line. A coach gives him time to play his way out of a slump, then another winger starts getting his minutes. There are plenty of guys in this building who would take mine and remember how to hit a stick from six feet away.

Or maybe I go all the way to the AHL and spend the winter teaching our prospects everything I’ve learned about blowing a lead.

They’re not sending me down. I know that.

I’m twenty-eight and an actual top-six player when my head isn’t jammed this far up my ass.

I can still picture the call telling me to pack.

At this rate, Seattle should save money and start a pee-wee team. The kids might know how to backcheck.

Gunderson changes the drill. Usually, it takes two whistles to get everybody into new groups because Bobby is talking and Anton is encouraging him. Today the first whistle is enough.

The quiet has been getting worse all morning. Nobody laughs off a bad pass. Guys stay in battles after the puck is gone, and when a stick catches someone across the gloves, the shove that comes back is hard enough to stop the drill.

“Settle down,” Gunderson says. The next group goes harder.

From where I’m waiting, I can see every guy trying to fix the last three losses by winning one practice rep.

Two white jerseys chase the same loose puck into the corner.

They clip each other, start swearing, and barely get separated before the puck comes back around. The whole team is about to combust.

I’m on the outside of the next rep when a sharp yelp cuts across the rink. Not a shout or a curse. A real sound of pain.

There’s a pile of bodies against the far boards, and Sindre Haugen is underneath it. One evergreen glove is pressed flat to the ice. His stick lies several feet away.

Sindre is a rookie, but he doesn’t complain when the older guys lean on him. He just digs in harder and tries to win the puck. Hearing that sound come out of him sends everyone toward the boards.

Bobby gets there first. By the time I reach the pile, he’s grabbed the front of another player’s jersey and driven him back into the glass.

“What the fuck was that?”

The defenseman shoves at Bobby’s arms. “Get off me.”

“He’s your fucking teammate.”

Bobby pulls his fist back. I catch him around the waist before he can throw it and turn both of us into the boards. My helmet knocks his, then I get my forearm across his chest and pin him against the glass.

“Move,” he says.

“No.” He tries to throw his weight backward. If Bobby gets his hips around, he can lift me, so I keep him turned.

“Fraser,” Caleb says from behind us.

“I’ve got him.”

“Then keep him there.”

Nara drops beside Sindre with one of the assistant trainers. “Everybody give us some room.”

Gunderson sends the rest of the team back with both arms. I drag Bobby a few feet along the boards, and he fights me the entire way.

“Stop,” I tell him.

“He ran him.”

I didn’t see the hit. I saw Sindre disappear under three bodies, and I saw Bobby come out of the pile ready to kill somebody. That’s enough for me right now.

Bobby twists again. “Let me have one.”

“Since when do you stop at one?”

He finally looks at me instead of the defenseman. I keep him there. “Nara’s trying to help Sindre. Don’t make her deal with you too.”

His eyes go past my shoulder. I feel the push leave him, but he doesn’t relax. “I’m not done.”

“You can be not done over here.”

He stays where I put him. I keep my arm against his chest until I’m sure he’s finished trying to get around me, then let him go.

Sindre is still down. Nara asks him something I can’t hear, and he answers. At least he’s talking. When he tries to sit up, she puts a hand against his shoulder and tells him to stay still. He makes an angry sound, which is better than the yelp.

My stomach turns anyway. Sindre still apologizes when somebody else bumps into him in the hall. Now one of our own guys has flattened him in a practice drill because none of us can handle losing three fucking games.

The defenseman who hit him is ten feet away with his mouthguard hanging from one corner of his mouth. His shoulders square when I skate toward him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“He cut across me.”

I point at Sindre. “So you pull up.”

He yanks his mouthguard out. “I finished the hit.”

“This is practice.”

“It wasn’t dirty.”

He looks toward Gunderson, as if the coach will settle this for him. I turn on the rest of the team instead. A couple of guys drop their eyes before I even open my mouth.

“Look at us. We’re a bunch of fucking kindergarteners who barely know how to skate today, and now we’re taking cheap shots at each other.”

“Fraser,” Gunderson warns.

I’m too pissed off to stop. “We don’t deserve to win if this is how we practice.”

“I thought the hit looked clean,” an unfamiliar voice calls.

Well, not unfamiliar. But out of place.

I jerk my head toward the Seattle bench. Ben Pope is standing on the ice near the open gate in a Seattle practice jersey.

What the fuck is he doing here?

I’ve never talked to Pope, but I’ve watched him play.

He was Miami’s number sixteen before today, wore an A, and took every ugly defensive-zone draw when they were protecting a lead.

He protected a lot of them on the way to winning the Cup two seasons ago.

Now sixteen is on his sleeve in Seattle colors, and I didn’t even know he was in the building.

Pope looks from me to the defenseman. He doesn’t take the comment back.

Bobby comes up beside me. “Is that Ben Pope?”

“Unless we both got concussed.”

Gunderson has barely unclenched his jaw all morning. He skates over to Pope smiling. “Pope. Good to have you. Everything clear?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Jump into the three-on-two while they finish up here. Take center with white.”

Pope nods and pushes away from the boards. Nobody asks Gunderson what is going on. Helmets turn as Pope crosses the ice, and the guys waiting for the drill make space for him without being told. Even Bobby has gone quiet.

Pope takes his place at center and taps his stick on the ice. The whole vibe in the rink has changed, and I’m not sure I like it.