Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ETHAN
If I had to pick a single team to never play against, it would be Dallas. They're brutal and unrelenting, more obsessed with taking the puck away from us than they are with doing anything with it themselves.
Oh, and my ex is on the team.
To call Trent Langley my ex is, honestly, overgenerous.
We played in juniors together, and after one particularly drunken night, exchanged hand jobs in a Days Inn in London, Ontario.
One thing led to another, and before long we were getting off together most nights.
We weren't particularly friendly during the day, but we played well together – in both senses of the phrase.
Then I got drafted and we never spoke of it again.
It was, in many ways, my introduction to what loving another man could be like; his strong arms and musky smell answered a lot of questions that had been hanging around in my head for years.
But they triggered more – was this all there was?
This frantic push-and-pull in a dark hotel room in the middle of the night?
Needless to say, it wasn't the healthiest...relationship? But it was also the only time I've ever been with the same person more than once, so it's basically my only relationship.
When Trent and I first played one another in the NHL, I wasn't sure what to expect.
Would we grab a drink after? Re-enact some old memories?
Instead, the Trent Langley I'd met that night had been as cold and hard as the ice we skated on.
Before the first period was over, he'd checked me into the boards twice.
The cold look of disgust in his eyes sent chills down my spine.
I can still remember the panic I felt that night, sure that all the guys would know, sure that Trent would tell them all.
Instead, they brushed it off as a particularly physical game and talked about what an asshole he was.
In the years since then, I've particularly dreaded our games each year, even hoping for a trade so we could stop playing in the same division.
No such luck. And here we were, facing our first game on home ice this year against him.
I had tried my best to warn Carter, to tell him what to expect. But he had brushed me off — and why shouldn’t he? It’s not like I’d been helpful to him so far this season.
Sure enough, the game started as fast and fierce as expected, with Carter winning a beautiful faceoff and being checked hard a split second later. Last week, a check like that got me a roughing call in Chicago; this week the refs are silent.
Dallas plays keepaway with the puck for a few minutes, maintaining possession without really putting any pressure on the goal.
We switch lines and Price is finally able to grab the puck and make a move for Dallas' goal, but before long, they strip the puck again.
The back-and-forth continues through the first period, with a ridiculously low number of shots on goal.
In the locker room, Ramsey reminds us to play our game, not theirs. This would probably be more helpful if we had actually cemented “our” game yet. As it is, we've got much better parts than the last few seasons, but we're still working out how they fit together.
As the second period starts, Dallas dials up the brutality of their play. It seems like none of us can hold onto the puck for more than a few seconds before being checked or shoved into the boards. Finally, Langley makes a sloppy pass to their third line center.
Carter snags the pass and makes a break for the other end of the ice.
The lean lines of his body pushed hard, putting him one-on-one with the Dallas goalie.
He was such a sight, pulling back for a slap shot, his muscles tensing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of a blur — Langley, coming in to defend the goal.
Instead of a clean hit, he reaches out with his stick — where is the ref?
As I race toward the goal, I see Carter go down.
Before he can even hit the ice, my gloves are off, my fist connecting squarely with Trent’s jaw.
He goes down to the ice and I follow him, unable to restrain myself.
Finally, I feel a strong pair of arms close around me and pull me backwards. Mac.
I come out of my rage-fueled haze and realize I’m not the only one to have jumped in.
Lindy and Gagnon have both engaged with Dallas players and the linesmen are trying to separate them.
A whistle sounds and as the fight starts to thin out, I see a shock of red on the ice – blood?
I put a hand to my face –nothing. Langley is still on the ice, the coward. That only leaves...
...my eyes find Carter, on all fours on the ice, the drip drip drip of blood coming from his face. Oh shit. I gestured for a trainer, the team doctor, anyone. When Carter looked up, I could see a slash above his right eye, neatly bisecting his eyebrow.
I don't know how it happened, but I was skating toward Langley again, prepared to draw blood, prepared to deal with this problem. Again, I feel those same arms hold me tight.
“Ethan, let’s let the refs do their job, yeah?”
I come back to myself, suddenly aware that Carter is now heading down the tunnel, accompanied by the trainer, holding a towel stained with red to his head. I glance back to the spot where it happened, but they're already scraping the ice.
Before I know it, Langley and I are being sent to the penalty box — him for high-sticking, me for fighting. I sit, trying to see the bench, wondering if the guys know any more than I do about Carter’s condition. Instead, I see worried looks and glances back to the tunnel.
“So you’ve got a new girlfriend, I see?”
Langley’s voice comes from the other penalty box and although I worry the attendant will hear him, my worry for Carter is stronger.
“Nice and blonde, that one. He’ll make a beautiful hockey wife.”
The rage is rising inside me, and I’m struggling to control it. I watch the clock, counting down my remaining time here.
“Nice eyes, too. I bet you love looking into them while you—“
“Langley, shut it!” The ref must’ve heard this last comment from his place on the ice.
I turn slowly and look at him — really look — for the first time in over a decade. His black hair is longer now, falling into his eyes. At the corner of his mouth is a crust of blood, probably from my own fist.
“Keep Carter’s name out of your mouth if you wanna keep your jaw intact.
” I glare at him and half expect him to push farther, to find some name to call me.
I'm not sure what he sees on my face, but instead, his eyes widen.
As he looks away, the horn sounds the end of the second period.
I throw myself onto the ice and head for the locker room.
When I get there I’m relieved to see Carter on the bench, a butterfly bandage over his right eye.
“Carter...are you okay?"
He looks shocked at the question, and I wonder – have I been that bad of a captain to him? Is he truly surprised I care?
“It's fine, just a little laceration. Let's finish this.”
Still, he seems shaken. I look around me at this motley crew of players, and I know I haven’t done what I need to to help us gel as a team. I guess it’s not too late to try. I turn to Coach Ramsey, who is standing next to a whiteboard.
“Coach, can I say a few words?”
He looks at me, hesitation evident on his face. After a few seconds, he makes the decision, giving me a brief nod.
“Guys, listen up!”
The locker room quiets, the team looking to me, more than a little surprised.
“This is a critical game for us.”
I hear a few laughs from the veterans, but I stare them down.
“I know what you’re thinking — this is preseason, what does it matter?
But listen, this game is going to define our season.
If we’re going to let every team we play get in Carter’s face, call him names, push him around, then we should just quit now.
That’s not what hockey is about, and that’s not what we’re about.
We have the best fucking forward in the league, and he can’t do a damn thing about it, because we’re all too timid to have his back. That includes me — and it stops now.”
Their faces express a range of feelings — uncertainty, shame, and — from Alexei — pride.
“I want us all over them. If they hit hard, you hit harder. And you open up some fucking lanes so we can remind the rest of the league what a fucking mistake they’ve made to let us get Carter. Do you understand?”
I get some decisive nods, and a few yeses.
“Boys, I believe your Captain asked if you understand,” this comes from Ramsey, still standing behind me.
“Yes, Captain!”
This time they speak as one, and the energy crackles through the room.
“Good. Let’s finish this.”
On the bench, Carter smiles at me for the first time.
We end up winning, and it isn’t even close.
Early in the third period, MacKenzie and I are able to lure the Dallas team into some play in the corner.
A quick pass behind me and Price has the puck, skating it toward the goal.
As the Dallas players attempt to get into the play, Gagnon lands a hard check to Langley, leaving him dazed against the boards.
While he's there, Lindy is able to get the puck to Matty, who sends a slapshot topshelf.
As we celebrate the goal, I see Langley skating stiffly off the ice.
Soon, Carter is out for his first shift since the beginning of the second period, and his fresh legs make the rest of us on the ice look like a bunch of old vets out for a beer league game.
Within five seconds of touching the puck, he has it in the back of the net on a wraparound.
In his next shift, we're on the ice together.
Dallas has possession of the puck for the first real time in the third period, but a quick poke check gives me the puck.
I see Lindy and Carter getting into position around the goal and I'm immediately reminded of the drill we ran during camp, of all the times I passed to anyone but Carter.
I angle my body toward Lindy, then, in a move more in Carter's wheelhouse than my own, shove the puck toward Carter on the backhand.
His eyes widen just a bit, but by the time the puck is near him, he's ready for the one-timer, placing the puck five-hole.
As the goal horn sounds, we collide, smacking one another on the back.
In the end, the scoreboard reads 5-1. As much as I hate to admit it, Greg was right – Carter is exactly what this team needs to turn around our losing streak of the last several years. He managed a hat trick tonight, in spite of everything Dallas tried to stop it.
In the locker room, the energy is frenetic — Alexei’s phone is hooked up to the Bluetooth speakers, with Russian house music pumping its beat through the room. I pull off my shoulder pads and jump up on one of the benches, sweat still rolling off my hair.
“That's what I’m talking about! First round’s on me tonight, boys!”
The energy gets even more intense as the team starts stripping down and hitting the showers. Alexei starts calling a few downtown bars, lining up a VIP section for our celebration.
The lockers room clears out quickly, the guys eager to get downtown and start their Saturday night. As I emerge from the showers, the smell of body spray lingers in the air.
Carter isn’t in a hurry. Under the fluorescent lights, his pale skin takes on a yellow tinge, the bandage prominent on his brow. He seems more subdued than usual, but an injury can do that to almost anyone.
“How's the cut?” I ask, heading to my stall.
Carter looks up at me, wary. “It’s fine. A few stitches.”
He remains taciturn as I continue to dress, pulling my boxer briefs on under my towel.
“You were right,” he whispers.
I can barely hear him, and at first I think I’ve misunderstood. “Huh?”
“At the party. You tried to tell me – that Langley would be a dick about the gay thing. And I blew you off. But you were right – I should've listened.”
As good as the words feel, I can't let him take the blame on himself.
“Oh, please. The only person who should feel bad about their behavior tonight is fucking Trent Langley. But he's a sociopath, so don't count on it.”
He laughs, but it has a distinctly wet sound to it.
“And we have to play them how many times a year?”
“Too many.”
His laugh is more genuine now, and I see a glimpse of the Jamie from the beginning of camp, before he began to get iced out by the team.
“I'm...I'm sorry if I haven't been the best captain to you. You're a great player, and we're lucky to have you here.”
“Yeah? 'Cause I gotta say, Cap, I've gotten the distinct impression that you in particular would rather I weren't here.”
Guilt floods my gut and I feel the tips of my ears redden.
“It…it would be easier for me. But we’d probably be losing a lot more games. Sometimes we have to do hard things, I guess.”
His eyebrows lift, and for the first time in a long time – ever? – he seems willing to hear me out.
“What you did tonight? Your speech to the guys? You didn’t have to do that for me.”
He pauses, then turns to me.
“No, Jamie. I had to do exactly that. Listen, I told you what was gonna happen. And it’s gonna happen again, and again, and again.
Guys are gonna want to call you all sorts of words.
They’re gonna want to get in your space, and make you their target.
And my job — my number one job this season is not to let that happen.
My number two job is making them regret it if they do. You understand?”
His eyes meet mine, but he stays quiet.
“ Carter, I’m gonna make you a deal, okay? As long as you keep skating like you do, and scoring like you do? I’ll make sure you keep having the chance to. Deal?”
I hold out my hand to shake. He looks at me hesitantly, and I can tell he’s not convinced. After a long pause, he holds out his hand, too.
“Deal.”