Chapter 5
five
Henry
I flop down on the bench in the visitors’ locker room.
“I just want to get this fucking game over with,” I mumble.
“You know it’s bad when Daddy swears,” Tweetie says from across the way. “But I hear you. I miss my girls.”
Rowan grunts an agreement. “And I want to get to the cabin. It feels like a lifetime away.”
Conor’s been pretty quiet since he blew up about the game being rescheduled last night. I thought for sure he was going to quit so he could be at Eloise’s doctor’s appointment. And I was about to give Coach my resignation right after Pinkie’s. The whole work-life balance is a struggle this season.
I hate that I’m missing so much of Jade’s pregnancy. Plus, she’s carrying the load of the household and Bodhi when I’m in season.
“Okay, guys, we need to get our shit together,” Conor says, surprising us all.
“I have my shit together.” Tweetie cracks his neck as if he’s gotten a crap sleep.
We’ve all been sleeping poorly because there’s nothing like sleeping next to your girl, and it’s been a week since any of us have done so.
Sometimes I wonder how I managed to live without Jade all those years.
“Magic told me earlier that we’re here, so we need to make it count. If everything goes well, we’ll all be in our beds with our wives at some point later tonight. So, let’s just put all the shit we’re missing aside like we do every game day and go out there and kick their asses.”
Tweetie jumps on Conor’s bandwagon and starts monologuing, but my phone dings with a text message. I pick up my phone to see Jade’s name.
I know you’re getting ready but wanted to wish you luck tonight. Here’s a little tease of what’s waiting for you when you land in Chicago.
My wife sends a picture of her without a shirt, her tits spilling out of her bra.
Fuck baby, I’d knock you up again if I could. Your tits are… my mouth is watering to have my mouth on your nipples.
Someone claps me on the back, and my phone slips from my hands. I scoop it up before anyone sees Jade’s picture.
All the guys look at me, then at each other.
“Sexting,” they say in unison.
“Sorry your wives don’t send you pictures to get your adrenaline going.”
“Who’s to say they don’t?” Rowan grins.
Conor throws his pad and hits Rowan square in the jaw.
“Man, they’ve had a kid. It’s pretty clear they’re fucking,” Tweetie says.
“I know, but I don’t want to think about my sister sending titty pics to anyone.”
“She better only be sending them to me.” Rowan shoots Conor a shit-eating grin to confirm that Kyleigh does, in fact, send him pictures.
Conor shakes his head.
“Listen, I know we all want to get home to be with our families, so let’s just get ready, beat these assholes, and go home.” Tweetie finishes lacing up his skates.
Nothing sounds better than what Tweetie just described, so I shoot Jade a text that says I’ll be lucky if I don’t skate into the boards thinking about that picture. She sends another picture with the cups of her bra under her tits.
Fuck, you’re evil. I love you. Watch for the sign.
“They’re at Peeper’s,” Tweetie says, looking at his phone. “Watching the game.”
Something about knowing your girl is watching you fires you up to play your ass off. Sure, I’ve had some shit games even while Jade has been in the stands with Bodhi. But having them nearby always motivates me to try harder even though hockey isn’t my life now. They are.
We file out of the locker room, and a minute later, our skates hit the ice.
I can’t deny I still love the game, but if I had to choose, it would be my family every damn time.
That fact has brought calmness to my game that I didn’t predict.
I don’t harp on every missed pass or goal.
Not that I’ve lost my edge. I’ll still put someone in the boards if they cross me or my teammates.
The first period’s always about shaking the nerves out of my legs, ignoring the weight of the crowd. Rowan wins the faceoff and the puck glides toward me. I take it up the boards, Tweetie on my left chirping at Ashby, Boston’s defenseman. Some things never change.
Between Tweetie, Rowan, and me, we cycle, pass, and test O’Leary, the goalie, before Ashby gets the puck, shooting it down the ice, chirping back to Tweetie about his piss-poor skills.
Unfortunately, Richards, their center, gets the puck, shooting it to the rookie at the right.
Conor watches the rookie as he skates closer, Conor’s eyes on the stick and the puck.
He’s the best goalie in the league, so I’m not worried.
He’ll stop the goal. Let’s be honest, the rookie is either going to be too scared to shoot, or he’ll ignore his teammates and only have eyes on the goal, trying to prove himself.
It takes at least a year for that pressure to lessen the effects on your performance.
As predicted, the rookie shoots and Conor deflects it with his shin guard. By the time the horn sounds at the end of the first, the scoreboard reads zero-zero.
The second period is usually my best for reasons I can’t explain. Rowan feeds me a no-look pass that lands perfectly on my stick, and I rip it toward the goal, but it hits the crossbar.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Their guy mumbles something to me, but I ignore him.
Soon the puck is back on the ice, and Rowan passes it to me again. It’s practically a repeat of the play from earlier, but this time the puck slips right between O’Leary’s legs.
The red light on the net flashes and I do my celly. I place my hand over my heart and point up in the air, my signal to Bodhi and Jade that I’m thinking of them.
Tweetie and Rowan are on me, congratulating me, before we’re off the ice and the second line comes on.
That one was for our little boy or girl. I can’t wait to find out in a few hours when we can open that envelope together.
One more period and this game is over and I’m on my way back to my family.