Chapter 36
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
brUCE
The D.C. Eagles #1 Fan Page On Hockeyisbetterthanfootball.com
Todd Ferguson : Well, Craig. Maybe you were right after all. I don’t know what’s going on with McBride. Why’d he wait until round three of the playoffs to choke?
Craig Nottingham : I just have a sixth sense about these things. I can tell if it’s going to rain if my eyes are twitching, too. My mom always said I had a prophetic nature.
Mandie Banderson : Craig you’re full of it. McBride has two off games, and you two dickheads are freaking out. Calm your tits, guys.
Craig Nottingham : Full of it? Then why is my eye twitching right now and it is raining?
Mandie Banderson : Anyone would know that by simply looking out the window.
Harry Johnson : I think after being benched last night, McBride will be motivated for tomorrow’s game. Being benched can serve up some humble pie pretty quick.
Todd Ferguson : I sure hope you’re right, Harry. The backup goalie isn’t up to par, he’ll be better in a few years, probably, but he’s not at playoff level.
Harry Johnson : O’Malley is a great goalie; he’s just young and still learning.
Craig Nottingham : Maybe McBride and O’Malley can go back to youth training camp this summer.
Mandie Banderson : For the love, CRAIG! SHUT UP.
I chuckle at Mandie’s comments as I turn off my phone and lay it on the squat rack beside me. I’m working out at the hotel gym, trying to distract myself from this shitshow I call my life.
My phone pings, and I glance down at the screen, expecting it to be a hockeyisbetterthanfootball.com notification. My eyes widen when I see Farrah’s name pop up.
Farrah
You can’t just buy me a 14,000-dollar oven.
My mouth lifts at the corners. Even if she’s being sassy, at least she’s speaking to me.
Bruce
I can. And I will. Are there other colors you’d like, too?
Farrah
You’re impossible.
Farrah
But…thank you.
It’s not much, but her texts are enough to lift my spirits through the rest of my workout.
When I get back to my hotel room, all the guys are waiting in front of the door. They’re dressed like they’re going out and leaning against the walls.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“We’re taking you out,” Remy says. “You’ve gotta stop working out every spare minute. You need to save that energy for tomorrow’s game. And we think you need a steak…and dessert.”
I perk up at that. “Dessert? Really?”
Remy reluctantly nods. “If Alexander Ovechkin can play how he plays while inhaling Flaming Hot Cheetos and Coca-Cola, you can, too.”
Alexander Ovechkin is every goalie’s worst nightmare, he’s almost broken Wayne Gretzky’s goal scoring record.
My shoulders slump, I don’t even bother hiding how pathetic I feel. “I could really use some dessert,” I admit. I was so tempted to go out and find some Tony’s chocolate bars last night.
Colby rushes over and pulls me into a hug. “I know, Brucey, I know.” He pulls away quickly, his nose wrinkling and a gagging sound coming from his mouth. “But go shower first; you smell awful.”
An hour later we’re at some fancy restaurant in downtown Thunder Bay. It’s one of those ultra-modern places that feels European and has the prices to match the vibes. We’re seated at a large, round table at the very back of the place, hidden away from prying eyes. It’s nice to be out but not noticed or bombarded.
Colby, Mitch, West, and Remy all order grilled chicken salads with a side of whole wheat pasta and organic butter to substitute the pasta sauce. They’re also drinking water. Just water. Meanwhile, my team captain has given me permission to order whatever I want. Probably because my performance on ice can’t get any worse, so to hell with it all.
I take advantage by ordering a steak smothered in onions and gravy, with a massive side of loaded mashed potatoes, and another side of mac then she’ll have to find a way to move that giant oven.”
Mitch shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you bought her an oven. That’s the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Says the man who gave his wife a platter of sub sandwiches,” I mutter under my breath.
Mitch narrows his eyes at me.
I shove a bite of mashed potatoes into my mouth, and they all look at me with jealousy clouding their vision. Remy stabs a few pieces of lettuce and eats the bite with a scowl on his face.
Washing my potatoes down with a sip of Moscato—a terrible pairing, by the way—I study each of my teammates. “I’m really sorry, guys. I know I’m sucking it up out there. I’m trying to put it out of my head during games, I really am. But I think it’s the lack of sleep that’s getting me. When I’m lying in bed each night, all I can think about is Farrah and what I’ll do if she never loves me back.”
Remy nods as I speak. “I know you’re exhausted. What have you tried for sleeping?”
I tick off each item as I say them. “Sleeping pills, a sleep mask, a weighted blanket, magnesium, a warm bath…”
West’s face lights up with an idea. “Have you tried essential oils?”
I scoff. “No.”
“Mel swears by them, she sends me with sleep oils for every trip. You wanna try some tonight? You put a few drops in coconut oil and rub it on the bottom of your feet.”
Shrugging, I reply, “Sure. I’ll try your witchcraft.”
He beams like he solved world hunger. “I’ll bring them by tonight.”
“All right, hopefully you’ll sleep better tonight after this feast, and Mel’s witch magic,” Remy says. “We need Bruce McBride back, the one that’s a beast on the ice. The backup goalie doesn’t cut it.”
“Poor O’Malley,” Colby says. “He needs more training.”
The rest of us nod.
“But if I can’t get my head in the game…he’s all we have.” I slump back in my seat, the delicious food suddenly not looking so great.
“You’ve got this. You’re a professional,” Mitch says. “This is why they pay you the big bucks. Once playoffs are over, you’ll have time to figure things out with Farrah and send her more ovens.”
Remy takes a sip of his water, and the look on his face tells me he wishes it was something stronger. “We believe in you.”