Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ETHAN
The next morning, I'm sitting on the plane trying to focus on my book. We're twenty minutes from wheels up and Carter still hasn't arrived. I've texted him once already and I'm considering a phone call when I hear a shout from Matty behind me.
“He lives!”
Sure enough, Carter is working his way down the aisle, a huge smile on his face. He drops into the seat next to me, heaving a sigh as he does. He catches my eye, the smile not dimming a bit.
“Thanks for the text, Cap. For some reason I slept like the dead.”
I feel a smile trying to crack through. I bet he did – when I left, he was snoring and spread diagonally across his bed. I'd grabbed a blanket from the couch to drape across him, not wanting him to wake up naked and cold. I guess I should have made sure he had an alarm set, too.
Just as I'm about to respond, Matthews drops into the seat across from Carter and I face back toward the window.
“Damn, dude. I was gonna give you shit about the walk of shame, but how can I when you look that happy?”
Carter laughs. “Who's ashamed, Matty?”
Matty apparently finds this hilarious, bumping Jamie's fist as he returns to his seat with Sutter. Meanwhile, I feel a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck, sure that someone will know exactly who put the smile on his face.
“You sleep ok, Cap? It'll be a late one tonight.” A hint of wariness is in his eyes, and I know what he's really asking – are we ok?
I scratch the back of my head and take a deep breath, willing the panic that was crawling over my skin back down. I clear my throat and meet his eyes.
“Yeah, Carter. I, uh, slept remarkably well.” I try to smile, but I'm sure it looks dim next to his. Still, I hope he knows what I'm saying – that last night was good, that I hope we're good, too.
He gives me a little nod and I hope the message has gotten through.
“So, New York. What's the inside scoop?”
“Huh?”
“It's your old man's team, right? Got anything you want to share with the rest of us?”
And just like that, it feels like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on my head.
“He, uh, doesn't really have anything to do with them anymore.”
“Nah, I know. But you've always got something to say about every team. So what's the deal?”
I try to swallow, but find my throat constricting.
“They're, uh, having a bad season. Sloppy forwards. Weak defense.” My voice sounds weak to my own ears, and the look of confusion on his face tells me he hears it too.
“You okay, Cap?” His eyes shoot to the back of the plane, and I can tell he'd rather be having this conversation one-on-one.
The feeling is mutual. I'd love to bury my face in his neck, my nose right up against that spot that makes him shiver. Maybe then I could tell him everything, tell him why my stomach is in knots and my head is starting to pulse.
Instead, I just look at him and say, “We really need to win this one, Jamie.”
I wish I could say the plane ride next to Jamie soothed my nerves, that I don't feel the anxiety trying to claw its way out through my skin. But as I start my pre-game rituals, I can feel both Alexei and Jamie looking at me, and I know I must not be covering it very well.
I sit there, thinking of how to fire up the boys, and I'm absurdly grateful when Alexei decides to do it himself.
“Gentlemen, we have beat far more skillful teams already this year.”
Some of the younger guys cheer at that, but Alexei's stare quiets them.
“Still, it is easy to become complacent. We cannot allow them to dictate our level of play. We will play our game, and make them come to us. Yes?”
He doesn't quiet this cheer, and before I know it we are on the ice.
Sure enough, New York is playing hard, almost desperate. From the beginning, they don't seem to be worried about getting the puck so much as keeping us off it. Three times the first line gets the puck near the net only to have it poke-checked out.
At the first intermission, Carter seems more frustrated than usual.
“Everything ok out there?”
“Hmm? Uh, yeah. It's fine.”
I can't say I'm particularly confident in that answer.
“Look, they're still sloppy. We'll get one through sooner or later.”
Sure enough, Matthews executes a beautiful deke in the second period that lets him sink the puck, his first goal of the year. On the bench, we go crazy, tapping our sticks and bumping his fist.
The next time I'm out, I notice one of the defensemen for New York - Deacons? - seems to be shadowing Carter closely. Even when the ref whistles the play dead, he's right up in Jamie's space, pushing him around. It's nothing crazy, but when I see it again I decide I need to know more.
Sure enough, during our next shift, I see him right up next to Jamie again. I skate closer than I usually would, hoping Mac can cover the gap I'm leaving.
“You fucking pussy. Not man enough to score in our house, are you?”
I've never understood when people say they see red, not until this very moment.
The play gets whistled dead again and this time I see Deacons dig the end of his stick into Jamie's ribs.
I can't even say I plan what I'm about to do.
Before I know it, I'm placing an open-ice hit on the guy, laying him out.
He pushes himself up as the refs approach, getting between us.
“That'll be two for roughing, Tremblay. Head to the box.”
I shrug, thinking I'm frankly lucky for that call.
“What the fuck, ref? That was a major, no question.”
The ref seems unconvinced.
“Mr. Deacons, if I were allowed to talk to you, I'd say you're lucky you're not getting a matching two. You've been all over Carter after the play."
Good. He saw it too, at least, even if he didn't hear the words I did. I'm happy to do two in the sin bin to make sure he stays off Carter – frankly, I'd have been fine with ten and a game misconduct.
Unfortunately, our best PK unit was mostly on the ice when I placed the hit, something I wish I'd taken into account. Instead, our PK2 has to handle most of the power play.
They give it their best, but it’s still early in the season, and with thirty seconds left on the power play, New York’s second line center manages to squeak one in thanks to a bad screen from Koski.
During the second intermission, Jamie sits down next to me in my stall.
“Hey, I thought we were trying to win this one.” He says, reminding me that I'm the reason it's all tied up now.
“I'm not ever gonna be ok with someone talking to you like that, manhandling you like that. Even if it means I lose in front of my dad.”
“I can fight my own fights.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not. It is not your job. You score goals that defy physics; I give you space to do it. I thought we already had this conversation.”
He rolls his eyes at me and walks away, rubbing a towel through his hair.
In the third, the play is sloppy from the beginning. Coverage is bad on both sides, and the goalies are getting in a real workout. The forwards are desperate to score, and the defense are falling all over themselves to block shots. Truly, I've seen better peewee games.
As the minutes tick down, Sutter sets up a screen, trying to open something up for Lindy and Jamie. They pass the puck back and forth until Jamie finally pulls the trigger. The shot is blocked, but New York's goalie is unable to hold onto it, the rubber disc bouncing free in front of him.
The crease turns into a scrum, everyone poking for the puck, trying to move it even an inch in their direction.
Suddenly, somehow, the goal horn scores, and sure enough the puck sits there behind the goalie.
As the play shows on the screen, I hold my breath, sure we're going to hear a goaltender interference call.
Instead, I see the puck bounce off a skate and get kicked in – a skate that belongs to a New York defender.
As the seconds tick down, I realize – we're winning this game on an own goal.
Can't wait to hear what Dad has to say about that.
An hour later, I walk into a bar on Moore Street, freshly showered and dressed in a new suit, gray with a subtle burgundy plaid. The lighting is low and I have trouble at first finding him among the other middle-aged businessmen in leather booths.
Finally, I see him in the back, facing away from me and telling a story that apparently requires him to gesticulate wildly. I approach quietly and stand beside him until the story – which seems to involve a woman who is not my stepmother – is done.
Once the tale is done, he waits for the laughter of his companions, whose eyes have been darting toward me for the past few minutes. Clearly they don't understand that Marty Tremblay won't be upstaged by anyone, even his own son.
Eventually he turns my way, giving me a once over.
“Wasn't sure you'd show up after that shit show. Where's your good suit?”
Of course he'd notice the suit.
“Some rookie spilled coffee on it today. Gonna have to take it to a cleaner.”
The lie was easier than negotiating the truth with my dad – that the suit wasn't that nice. That I felt better in these clothes, more like myself.
“Probably that pansy Carter. Was it a mocha frappucino with whipped cream?” He laughs uproariously at his joke, while the others chuckle along, eyes darting toward me.
Finally, he gestures toward the empty spot in the booth.
“I guess you might as well sit down, if these guys even want to talk to you after that disaster of a game.”
Their eyes continue to bounce between us, until finally the oldest of the three decides to speak.
“Well, of course, Marty. Logan Sportswear will always be interested in a star like your son.”
Strike one.
If Mr. Logan Sportswear had asked me for advice, I certainly wouldn't have advised that approach. Sure enough, Dad's face is scrunched up, turning red around the edges.
“A star? Hmph. Not likely. I mean, he's a defenseman for starters. No flashy goals or speed skating out of this one.”
He elbows me a little too hard, unable to help himself after being forced to hear someone make me the center of attention. The more things change...