Chapter Seventeen Randall
Frustration is the devil on my shoulder every time I think about making love to Elise in my car. Not only because I’m dying to repeat it again and again, but also because What. The hell. Happened.
How did I say too much and yet nothing at all?
I had stood outside Elise’s door for a solid two minutes after she entered her house. Driving away without saying more felt so fucking wrong.
But I can’t lie; it was also a relief to leave our friendship intact.
Maybe we can be friends with benefits. Even saying it in my head sounds stupid. Cheap.
What were her rules again?
No sex in either of our beds, no sleeping over, no sticking around. Easy to follow when she’s across the state. Less easy when her delicious aroma fills my senses and her smile becomes my world.
Thanks for everything! Good luck the next series! I’ll be cheering for you!
That’s the next morning’s text from Elise, each exclamation point like a sucker punch. The message is friendly and casual but so goddamn frustrating.
Focus. I should focus on the next team we have to beat. That I can do.
Playoff hockey is its own new season. Even teams with strong winning records can be toppled by those who barely made it into the playoffs.
Despite the skill and precision the sport requires, there’s a raw, improvised aspect that sets it apart. You can plan all you want, but the unexpected swerve of a hit, the battle against the boards, the burst of speed, the desperate puck block—all these factors can be worth more than a perfect shot.
The underdog, perhaps less talented on paper, can tap into the reservoirs of their desperation.
The Miami Sharks came out of a brutal series against their state rival, and it shows. Our opponents are pumped and bruised and angry.
Desperation fuels grit, and grit wins games.
We, however, are playing like we stumbled out from a nap.
Although we practiced and scrimmaged while waiting for their series to end, we haven’t had a real game in five days.
We’re a better team, but they’re sharper.
Meaner.
The viciousness of their hits and the relentless shots on goal take us by surprise.
Me, most of all.
By the time the second period ends in the first game, I’ve let in two goals.
“This is our game, not theirs! Our arena, not theirs!” Coach Zach bellows in the locker room. “The third period, we’re going to fight for every inch of that ice! I want shots on goal, I want checks that rattle their teeth, and I want every single one of you to play like you’re goddamn professionals!”
Mumblings of agreement spread amongst the seated players. Our coach looks at Dexter. The captain takes the spot in the middle of the room, standing over the Mavericks logo imprinted bright on the carpet.
“Coach is asking us to dig deep for this third period,” Dex begins in a determined tone. “Every pass, every shot, every check—make it count. Remember why you love this game. The first two periods didn’t go our way, but guess what? We haven’t even shown them what we’ve got. Let’s do that now. It’s our time!”
Hollering and fist pumping boost everyone’s spirits.
I’m pushed to the front of the line. Waves of encouragement carry me to the ice and bolster me between the metal posts of my net.
Our first solid play comes nearly halfway through the period. We’re running out of time. Everyone is frustrated. Penetrating the offensive zone has gotten more difficult since the team ahead is playing defensively.
The Sharks are holding the blue line like it’s the entrance to a fort.
Sergei is forced to skate all the way behind my net to redo our set up, which hasn’t clicked all night. He gains some speed, and I watch my teammates go on attack.
Gordon takes a high elbow hit on the boards but manages the precise pass to Lance. The crowd stirs as Lance controls the puck in a burst of energy.
Our star player streaks down the middle in a breakaway, stick handling like there’s glue on his blade. I hear the crowd roar before the red flash of the goal light. That’s what I’m talking about! I bang my stick on the ice so hard, the vibrations go through my body. We’re within one goal.
After the celebration, we hunker down. My eyes are fixed on the chaos unfolding. Everyone is playing dirty now; it might as well be a street fight in a hockey rink. Sticks swing, bodies collide, and the referees’ verbal warnings are muffled by grunts and crashes. I make a few key saves before Coach Zach calls a timeout.
We all head to the bench and my goaltending coach, Will Vomero, taps me. “We’re pulling you for the last minute and a half. Get ready to haul tail as soon as Sean wins the face-off.”
It’s a typical move in hockey, especially down one goal with a face-off at the offensive end, for the goaltender to leave the ice and make way for an extra player, establishing a six-on-five scenario.
I’m standing in the middle of my zone, closer to the bench than I would ever dare if it wasn’t for the set up.
When we win the face-off, I rush to the bench and watch helplessly as my teammates try to get back the second goal I had failed to stop.
We can do this! I know it. The Mavericks beat the Sharks every game we played against them this past season.
But those were Jeremy’s wins.
I shake off the bitter thought and teeter at the edge of my seat, willing my teammates to find the back of that net.
But our efforts are too little, too late. We lose the first game.
There’s nothing to be done but shuffle to the locker room so the coach can scream over our heavy hanging heads.
***
“You’ve had a great run. It’s perfectly normal to take a break. You know that more than anyone,” Will appeases me as if he’s comforting a child.
Of course, I know what it is to give the main goaltender a break. I’m usually the replacement, not the top guy.
What he really should say is that I blew the first two games of the series.
Over and over again, the feeling of the puck grazing my glove as I failed to stop it haunts me.
Like the first one, we had lost the second game by a single goal.
Tonight, I’m being swapped for a kid from the farm team, barely out of college. Game three will start with twenty-year-old Soren Jovanovi—something, something. No one knows how to say the kid’s last name. Whoever had to stitch Jovanovi?evi? at the back of his jersey probably got a migraine. I get one just looking at it.
We’re in Florida now, set to play games three and four in our opponent’s arena. The entire plane ride from Columbus to Miami, I kept to myself. Bitter guilt made it impossible for me to look at my teammates. They would never openly blame me, yet everyone is thinking the same thing.
Jeremy would have found a way to secure a shutout in a playoff game.
Goddamn his injury, which came at the worst possible time: at the end of a season in which he carried the Mavericks to the top of the league. And here I am, pissing it all away.
Although he couldn’t travel with the team for health precautions, Jeremy reviewed game footage with me before the trip. He offered encouragement and advice because he’s a great teammate and a nice guy. It turns out, he’s also a world-class bullshitter.
“Your rebound control has never been better.”
“Love the way you challenged the shooter here.”
“Talk to the boys while you’re out there. Tell them where they need to be.”
“Great save on that angle shot. Trudeau will keep challenging you from that corner. Good anticipation.”
Blah, blah, blah when what I really needed him to tell me is when the fuck is he coming back?
Not any time soon, if we keep losing.
Tonight, as I sit on my usual spot on the player bench, my hair unruffled and my jersey unsoiled, I don’t have the usual feeling of contented cheer. I’m more stressed than I would be if I was the goalie on the crease.
Poor Soren is shaky out there.
Our guys had to use their bodies to block at least six shots which would have surely found the back of the net. Sergei took one in the stomach because he sprawled across the ice to block a slapshot. Crazy motherfucker. Sean had to go to the locker room because he took a puck right at the inside of his knee where the padding isn’t as thick.
We’re dropping like flies.
The problem is, Soren isn’t using his size. He’s even bigger than me: six-five and built like a boulder. If he just eased toward the shooter an inch or so, he’d cut the angle. The shooter wouldn’t be able to see the net beyond Soren’s wide shoulder pads.
Not that anyone is asking me, the guy who lost the first two games.
The second intermission is déjà vu by now. We wobble to the locker room, trailing in the score sheet like we’ve been throughout the series.
All the scolding from Coach Zach is nothing compared to the palpable frustration coming in waves from each sweaty player.
The weight of the game and the responsibility for the team bears down on Dex, who is staring at the floor.
Sergei is so pissed, he punched a wall.
Lance can’t even sit down to take a break. He’s jumpy and aggravated.
Everyone else displays a unique form of self-blame, mumbling in Russian or German or whatever his mother tongue is.
Others stare into space, reliving botched plays over and over again.
Or is that just me?
The feeling of the puck grazing the top of my glove is a shadow I can’t shake. At the end of the night, after losing our third game and finding ourselves at the brink of elimination, that shadow looms larger.