Page 70 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

“Never too tired for you, babe.” I move that last inch and brush my mouth over hers. “Sleep in my bed.”

She swallows. “Okay.”

“Take care of the pooch.”

“I will. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

—

We squeak out a win in Ottawa, four–three, then move on to Montreal. This is a big game, not necessarily because of the standings, but because it’s Saturday night in Montreal, which is probably the craziest hockey city in the world, and which means hockey night in Canada and tons of media attention.

Which is perfect for one of my most humiliating hockey moments.

It’s late in the third period, and we’re down a goal and trying to tie it up. We’re going hard to the Montreal net, but they get the puck on a rebound and take it back. In front of our net, Jammer and I are trying to cover Montreal’s leading scorer, Grekov, when Jammer goes down, taking me with him. What the fuck?

I look down and see that my skate lace is caught in the guard on the back of Jammer’s skate. As I see this, as we’re both lying on the ice, Grekov is totally open and scoops up the puck, firing it past Gunner.

I close my eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jammer curses. “What is happening?”

The hometown crowd is on their feet, cheering wildly, Montreal players celebrating. I look over at Gunner, who had no chance on that goal, and he slams his stick against the goalpost. I don’t blame him.

Jammer and I are still tangled up and I have to loosen my lace from his skate to be able to stand up and skate to the bench. Jesus fuck.

I don’t play at all the remaining four minutes of the game. I can practically see the steam coming out of Coach’s ears. Maybe he’ll have a heart attack. I’m going to hell for thinking that, but it would take the attention off me. I know this is not going to go well.

And Jammer. He’s more of a target for Coach than I am. Fuck.

The horn sounds and we all trudge back to the dressing room. The mood is heavy and my gut is a mass of knots, waiting for what whooping Coach is about to deliver on our ass. I can handle it. It was an accident, a fluke, a one-in-a-million stupid thing to happen. He can blame us for it, but everyone knows it was just shitty luck.

As expected, Coach is irate and Jammer and I are in his focus. “What thefuckwas that?” he yells. “You left their top scorer open right in front of our net!”

Jammer and I exchange glances. He doesn’t realize what exactly happened?

“It was a freak accident,” I start. “My—”

“Freak accident?” He glares at me. “It was fucking garbage defense!” His head swivels to direct his glower at Jammer. “What were you thinking?”

“Coach, my skate lace—” I try again.

“I’m talking!” he yells.

“Well, maybe you should listen!” I yell back. Immediately I know that was the wrong thing to do.

He hurls his clipboard at me.

I duck, even though it doesn’t come that close and it crashes off the wooden stall.

Silence thickens the air in the room.

Coach storms out and we all bow our heads, not wanting to look at each other. I’m not on the list to talk to the media, thank God, so I yank off my skates and my equipment, handing it over to Tommy, the equipment assistant. Then I hit the showers. I should cool down on the bike and stretch but I’m way too wound up to do that. I just want to get the fuck out of here.

The bus is waiting for us in the tunnel. We’re going straight to the airport from here. I find a seat at the back in the dark and slouch down in the seat. I can’t think—everything in my brain feels stuck. A giant band is tightening around my chest and I’m sweating even after my shower.

Gradually other guys board the bus. Normally there’d be a lot of noise—trash talk and laughter, even after a loss. But tonight, things are quiet.

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