39. Sean
It’s my first game back after the injury, but it’s also my first game without Astrid. An away game. Making it even harder to focus while being away from her when all I want to do is make this right.
I need to make it right before it’s too late.
I lace up my skates, my thoughts still lingering on Astrid. She’s a thousand miles away, it’s not like she would be here anyway, but it feels lonely, nonetheless. At least if we were on speaking terms, I would have been able to tell her about getting to play. Instead, I stared at my phone, too afraid to text her before slamming my stuff shut in the locker room.
Distant, muffled sounds of the awaiting fans echo in the tunnel as we wait to be announced and come out. I rub my fingers over the worn edges of the tape on my hockey stick. Coach seemed pretty confident in my healing. Still, I won’t be starting tonight. I rock back and forth. It isn’t the best case scenario. But I’ll take what I can get.
Once we’re out, everything stills. My fears momentarily subsiding as time speeds up around us. It’s kind of like an out-of-body experience. I take my seat on the bench next to Dan. My ego isn’t dependent upon being a starter. The fact that I can play at all is important enough. If I get my shit together.
Coming in strong off the bench is how I started my career, and now it seems to be the way in which my career will either take off or wither away.
If it’s up to Coach Tommy, it’ll be the latter.
I hate that feeling.
The first period isn’t great. There is no kind way to put it. The chemistry on the ice is off and we let them spend most of the time on the board in a power play.
Hockey moves too fast to second-guess each other. Every second wasted or excess movement results in a missed pass or poor shot, sealing our fate.
Our fan section seems to sense it. Their cheers start to die down as the clock ticks closer to zero and the first period ends.
Coach slams his clipboard against the wall.
The guys regroup in period two. We score a goal. But then so do they. It is a one-one game and the crowd is on edge.
“Get ready to go in,” Coach yells at me over the roar of the crowd.
I know it’s dumb to be nervous, but I am. I try to shake everything off as I’m subbed in, skating across the ice, but the feeling seems to crawl beneath my skin. I can’t afford to be off my game tonight. Not when Tommy watches me like hawk. This is the part of the season we can’t afford to fuck up. And it seems like the part of my career that I can’t mess up either.
I check their number seven into the boards, steal the puck, slip left around their defender, and pass it off to Cory, who shoots. He misses, but Mike is there to grab the rebounding puck and he skates out to give us time to reset.
A cold panic floods my veins as the self-doubt for the last practice threatens to darken my thoughts and strengthen my doubt.
I can’t let myself down. Not now.
The puck finds my stick. I move right, then left, easily evading the defense, and slicing through their backline with more ease than I’ve felt in a long time. My heart beats into my hands as I see Cory break free. I pass it several feet ahead of him, and he gets there with ease, as if reading my mind, just as the goalie moves right to face him.
Instead of taking the shot, he passes it to me. The goalie is off center. I don’t think, I take the shot. The puck hits the back of the net, and the goal horn blasts, and the crowd erupts in cheers.
I see Coach punch his fist into the air in victory.
Cory claps my back. “Good job, man.” It is all he can say before the rest of the guys pile on top of me in celebration.
We stay up two-one. No one is able to score in the third period, but it doesn’t matter. We did it. We fucking did it. And I made the difference.
Despite the elation of the win, I can’t shake off the obvious truth: winning isn’t as good without Astrid.
I find myself fading in and out of the celebratory energy, asking myself, without her, without Astrid in my family, what would all of this be for?
Reporters swarm us the moment we’re off the ice, but I don’t want to talk. Not after the things they’ve said. I don’t want to feed into it. I shield my face from the flashing of photographs.
Cory doesn’t seem to mind, though. He loves the spotlight, running a hand through his sweaty hair, he gravitates towards the nearest microphone.
I laugh, using him as my distraction, slipping around the corner, retreating to safety in the locker room.