20. Ace
TWENTY
ACE
The ginormous temperature difference between inside and outside didn’t bother the other guys on the team, but I’d grown up in a northern rink. There was something about walking into the arena sweating my balls off that didn’t feel right. I checked my phone one last time before practice. Goldie and I had been texting back and forth since she stayed over. She was funny and awesome, but texting someone smart made me nervous. Yesterday, I’d had to ask Harrison for a quickie lesson on the difference between your and you’re . It turns out, it’s not that hard.
Out of all my teammates, the only one I could get to practice the “Michigan” with me was Ethan. In Toronto, we’d practiced varying versions, and Ethan was surprisingly good at it. Essentially, the puck is held on the blade of the stick, kind of like a pint glass on a serving tray, and then flicked into the net. It is gimmicky and probably shouldn’t be allowed in games. It is tricky as hell, and kind of a show-off move, so it isn’t done in important games; but on the rare occasion it is done, it’s a real crowd pleaser.
The night before the game, we went out for dinner in downtown Miami. I wasn’t a fan of the city, but the seafood was definitely better than what we had in Toronto. As I ate, I wondered what Goldie was doing. I wondered what she’d order if she was at the restaurant with me.
Banksy snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Acer.”
The restaurant came back into view. “What were you thinking about? The mystery girl from the Tattler ?”
When I’d heard that there was a photo of me kissing a woman on the street, I thought that the gig was up. Luckily, it was impossible to tell who I was kissing from the back. I took a bite of my mahi mahi and washed it down with sparkling water. “I was thinking about the game. It’s not too late to save this season.”
Banksy raised his eyebrows. “It would take a record-breaking streak to get us to the playoffs. That’s what, a less than one percent chance?”
I never passed up the chance to quote one of my favorite movies. “So you’re saying there’s a chance.” I grinned like Jim Carrey from Dumb and Dumber .
This got a laugh from Banksy and Holmes. “Crazier things have happened.” Holmes smiled. “We have been pretty dialed in at practice. You and Ethan are wasting a lot of your time with trick shots though.”
“It’s fun.” I couldn’t tell them that I planned to do it in the game. They’d have me committed. “Do you guys remember when the game was still fun?” I glanced to the end of the table where Gideon was having a conversation with Evgeny, who couldn’t really carry a conversation in English.
“I still love it.” Banksy was one of the few guys who had beer the night before a game. He sipped his drink and finished his seafood pasta.
“Me too,” Holmes chimed in. “It was feeling heavy for a while, like a job though. I think it’s going to get better now.”
I wasn’t sure if Coach was going to play Gideon tomorrow. We had come together to win the last game, but our track record together on the ice was super shitty. “I think it’s going to be better too.” I wasn’t going to let my brother bring me down anymore. I had good friends on the team, and a brilliant secret girlfriend, who would hopefully be not-so-secret, soon. Life was good.
Holmes finished his beer and set down his glass. “I think we need a ritual. As a team. Something we do together.”
“Yeah.” Ethan nodded. “When I played for the Bobcats, we all smacked the goalie’s pads with our sticks in the warm-up.”
“We would tap the doorframe of the dressing room door back in Denver,” Banksy said.
They were right. The Toronto Tigers didn’t have anything similar. Usually, there was a player, most of the time it was the captain, who got on the ice last. We filed out willy-nilly. “I’ve got an idea.” I smiled. “I want it to be a surprise though. If I start a ritual, will you all follow along tomorrow?”
The guys closest to me shrugged and then nodded. “As long as it isn’t anything super weird, like wearing thong underwear.”
“I wonder if it would be comfortable.” I pretended to think about it.
Banksy laughed. “Can you imagine Gideon out there, picking a wedgie?”
At the mention of his name, Gideon’s dark gaze turned to the end of the table. “Well, he’s got a stick up his ass already; what’s a thong on top of it?” As soon as I made the joke, I regretted it. Gideon was a serious player, and an asshole, but shit-talking him like we were thirteen years old didn’t feel very good.
“What are you going to do, Acer?” Mikey asked.
“Just follow along, Holmes.” I smiled. “We need something to bring this team together, and I think this is going to do the trick.” Taking a page out of Goldie’s playbook, I held up my fingers. “Scout’s honor, it will be good.”
They all returned the hand signal. It was amazing how many kids had been in the Boy Scouts. My plan was a little ridiculous, but I was going to do it. The million-dollar question was whether or not Gideon would follow along. He was a buzzkill, but he was still a player, and we were all a little superstitious. He wouldn’t be able to resist a team ritual.
The Miami fans were rowdier than Toronto’s. The Miami Barracudas were one of the top-ranked teams in the league, and were expected to make it to the Cup finals.
As we left the dressing room for warm-up, Mikey jogged to walk out beside me. “What are you going to do?”
“Come on.” I patted his back. “Follow me.”
Holmes turned and motioned for the guys to follow him. Our goalie, a quiet guy name Robbie, was shuffling back and forth in the net, getting the ice ready for the game.
“Robbie,” I shouted.
He squirted water through the cage of his mask. “Yeah.”
I took his helmet in my hands and planted a kiss on the Tiger’s logo at the front.
“Really?” Holmes said.
“What was that for?” Robbie asked.
“It’s our new thing,” I replied.
Holmes shrugged and planted a smooch on the logo. The rest of our line followed suit, and the other players, who had been stretching, noticed and lined up to kiss the logo. The last player to do it was Gideon. I thought he might grumble about it, but he didn’t.
We finished our warm-up and, after the National anthem, took our spots on the bench. Coach Swanson patted my shoulder. “That was some nice leadership there, Bailey.”
It didn’t slip my attention that he used my last name. Was there room for two Baileys on the team, or had I orchestrated a takeover of the throne?
After the second period, we were ahead by one goal. The Miami players were off their game, and Coach thought that they’d underestimated us. We had them scrambling. We were outshooting them, and had killed all of their power plays, while keeping our own penalties down.
With five minutes left in the game, the Barracudas scored, and while Heart’s song of the same name boomed through the arena, I felt a sense of dread. I couldn’t do the Michigan while we were tied. If that was the reason we lost the game, I’d… I didn’t know what would happen. We would lose and I didn’t want that on my conscience.
The clock ticked away. Just like in the Vegas game, in the last minute, Coach put Gideon and me on the same line. Gideon skated into place and tapped the ice at the faceoff circle with his stick. I replied with the same tap. We weren’t speaking in words in real life, but there on the ice, we were communicating.
He won the faceoff and we charged up the ice.
It wasn’t me who initiated the play, it was Ethan. I circled the net and he passed the puck to me from the corner. We had trained the trick so often, my reflexes took over, bypassing my brain. The puck sat on my stick as I dug in hard and circled the goaltender, spinning as I flicked the puck into the net.
The goal light lit up in my peripheral vision, and then Ethan and Evgeny slammed into me. “Holy fuck,” Ethan whispered. “It worked.”
“He wasn’t expecting that,” I replied.
Gideon looked at me, his eyes dark and his brow furrowed behind his fish tank. What the fuck? he mouthed.
I turned away. I wasn’t going to let him get to me anymore.
The announcement of the goal confirmed it had worked. There was twenty seconds left in the game, but Miami couldn’t get past our defense.
We had won two games in a row, and as we shook hands with the Barracudas, I wondered if Goldie had seen the game.
After the game, the guys wanted to celebrate, but instead, I went back to my room. I wanted to call Goldie, not to see if she saw the game, but to ask her the question that had been burning in my brain since the win. How did she know? Was she a time traveler? Was she a psychic? One could be dismissed as a coincidence, or a fluke, but two predictions in a row? I couldn’t brush off the feeling that there was more to Goldie, and I had to find out what it was.
I settled into my hotel room, but before I could call Goldie, there was a knock on the door. It was Coach.
“Can I come in?” He was still in his coach’s suit and tie. I had already changed into my sweatpants and T-shirt.
“Sure, Coach.” I opened the door and gestured for him to come inside. He sat down on one of the beds. I was watching replays from the game and had to turn down the TV. The light from the screen flickered behind him. Over his shoulder I could see the slow-motion replays of the puck on my stick before I tossed it into the net.
I sat on the other bed and rubbed my hands on my sweatpants. “I know what you’re going to say. I don’t know why we did that shot—”
Coach held up his hand. “We can talk about that at practice. It was foolish, and in my books, showboating, but it worked. You’re a good player, Ace. You’ve got a feel for the game that I’ve only seen with one or two players in my career. Your brother is a great player, but he doesn’t feel it like you do. I want you to start trusting your instincts a little more. Maybe not trick shots, but stop second-guessing yourself. I’ve noticed that your hesitation has disappeared and it has made you a better player.
It wasn’t what I expected. I thought I was going to get a lecture. “Thanks, Coach. Ethan and I practiced that shot all week. I didn’t think, I just did it.”
“I know, kid.” He patted my leg. “That’s what I mean. I want to see more of that.”
I was a grown man, but even still, I didn’t think that there was an age limit on feeling pride and receiving praise from your coach. “You’ve singlehandedly turned this season around. I was so focused on the game, I’d forgotten about camaraderie. Your little ritual set the tone for the game, and if the guys like it, I want you to keep doing it. You first, Gideon last.”
“I can’t take all the credit for that. We discussed superstition at dinner, and my line agreed that we needed…something.”
“You’re a natural-born leader. Lean into it.”
I’d never thought of myself as a leader. “I don’t like telling people what to do.”
“Kid.” Coach stood. “A leader isn’t bossy. A leader does just that, leads by example. Keep on doing what you’re doing.”
He left me alone in the room. For the first time in my life, I was the one my teammates looked up to, not Gideon. I was the one scoring the goals, and it was number eleven on the scoreboard, not number eight. For a guy who thought a woman would make his game turn to shit, I was doing damn good. It might be a coincidence that Goldie could predict the shot needed to win a game, but it wasn’t a coincidence that everything in my life had turned around when she came into it, for the better.