Page 52 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

Coach’s face tightens and his eyes bulge in their sockets at my back talk. For a moment, I think he’s going to snap the clipboard in his hands. “We’ll talk more about this Monday.” Then he turns to Jammer. “And you! You jumped into the rush and got caught deep in their end when Millar here is trying to make fancy-ass passes.”

Jammer winces. Yeah, that was another screwup. When the Florida D-man picked up my attempt at a seam pass to JBo, he slid it to their talented center Sandberg, who was off flying up the ice with his winger. Jammer’s partner on defense, Nate, was on his own chasing them. And they scored. With four seconds on the clock.

We’d been trading goals the whole game, and with four minutes left in the game, Bergie gave us the lead. That got us all amped up and we weren’t focused enough on defending that lead, especially me.

Then we lost in overtime.

There’s a rock in my gut as I strip off my jersey and my shoulder pads. I’m on the list for the media to talk to, so I’ve got to wipe the sweat off my face, grab a baseball cap to hide my soaked hair, and put on a game face in front of the cameras.

Of course they’re asking questions about the same thing Coach just gave me hell for. But I have to own it. “Yeah, sure, I want to make nice passes, but that was obviously a dumb move,” I tell the reporters. “I should have kept it simple and just chipped the puck in, got the puck to the net, and hopefully create something off that. I didn’t do that.”

I don’t bother cooling down on the bike like I usually do. I hit the shower and dress in my suit, not wanting to stick around. I don’t see Cookie, so I leave the arena and trudge to the subway station on 28th Street. I have a knit cap pulled down low over my forehead and a scarf around my chin. I don’t feel like dealing with any fans right now. Right now, I feel like kicking the tiled wall behind me.

I pull out my phone when I’m on the train and check my messages. There’s the usual text from Lilly with a picture of Otis, which she sends before she leaves. It was sent two hours ago.

I wish she was still there.

No, I don’t. I don’t need to inflict this black mood on anyone. Poor Otis will have to deal with me.

About twenty-five minutes later I’m hooking up Otis’s leash to his collar and heading back out into the night. Saturday night traffic still streams along 9A in ribbons of light and hissing tires, but Riverside is quieter. I walk toward the park, Otis happily romping and sniffing the base of the trees on the boulevard. I take a few deep breaths of chilled air, trying to loosen the tension that’s accumulated in my shoulders and neck. I’ll need a massage tomorrow for sure.

I’m trying not to beat myself up over one bad night. We all have them. In this business, we have them in front of millions of people. And one livid coach. I’ve made mistakes before and I’ll make them again. We have to learn to deal with it and put it behind us. Coach’s diatribe doesn’t make it easier to let it go, though. It makes it harder. And the last thing I want is to be afraid the next time I step onto the ice, afraid of screwing up and being in his line of fire again. Fear doesn’t make you play better. It’s not a good motivator. It’s a mental game killer.

I can’t let that happen to me. I can’t be afraid and lose my edge. I can’t let this affect my game.

I round the corner onto 72nd and cross over to the little round park around the Eleanor Roosevelt statue. The trees are bare now in mid-November, the branches black against the pale overcast sky. I keep walking until I’m at the corner of 73rd. Lilly’s street. She’s only a few buildings away.

Don’t be stupid. It’s nearly midnight.

I pull my phone out and tap in a text, replying to Lilly’s last one.Thanks for the pic. You still awake?

It only takes a few seconds for the jumping dots to appear. Then her reply.Yeah. Why?

I’m not sure what to say. Then my gaze lands on Otis and a cynical smile lifts my lips. Why not?Otis wants to see you again.

I’m using my dog as chick bait. I’m scum.

I get a smiling emoji back.

I’ve turned the corner and with a few more steps I’ll be right in front of her door.We’re out for a walk. Can we stop by?

This reply takes a little longer.Sure?

I ring her buzzer, then lean my head against the doorframe. Otis knows where we are and he’s wriggling his butt, his feet tapping on the step in a doggy dance. She lets us in, and we open the door to step into the hall.

Wearing a curious expression and a small smile, her face peers out in the space between her door and the doorframe, which widens when she sees us. “Hey. What’s up?”

Otis springs toward her, jumping up and down. She bends to pick him up. “Hello, handsome. How’s my guy?”

That greeting…those words…Christ.

“I took Otis for a walk. We were close and…”

“Come in.” She stands back, still holding a wriggling Otis.

I walk past her to enter the apartment. The living room is empty, with only a couple of lamps and the TV providing light. A soft blanket is crumpled on the sofa and a glass half full of red wine sits on the coffee table. I turn to Lilly. “Did you watch the game?”

“Yes.” She closes the door. “Glass of wine?”

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