Page 32 of You Had Me at Hockey

“I knew a guy that had to take his girlfriend to the hospital because he went down on her after eating Thai food. The hot spices actually burned her cooter.”

“That’s not what happened.” I rub my face. “We ordered an appetizer that was really good, but just when we began eating our dinner, Sara started having an allergic reaction. Like a serious one—anaphylaxis.”

“Ohhhh.” A bunch of guys all make appropriate noises of consternation.

“Turns out she’s allergic to chickpeas and didn’t realize there was hummus in the appetizer. Had to call an ambulance.”

“Holy shit,” Nate says, mouth gaping.

They all stare at me.

“Is she okay?” Brando asks.

“Yeah. Now. They gave her a bunch of drugs and oxygen. Then I took her home.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t get some.”

“Ha ha. Nope. I did sleep at her place last night, but in the guest room.”

“Damn.” Cookie shakes his head.

“Dude. You should have seen her. She was in no mood for action. Actually, neither was I. I was just glad she was alive.” I shake my head.

Some of us move to the workout room. I hop on a bike.

“That’s definitely a memorable first date,” Nate says.

“Probably ouronlydate.” I grimace. “As if she’s going to want to see me again, after that.”

“It’s not like you poisoned her.”

“That’s how I felt. Jesus. What a disaster.” But even as I say that, I have to admit I still had a good time. Not so sure about Sara. “Although she did ask me to teach her to skate. For one of her videos.”

“There you go. A perfect excuse to see her again.”

“Not super thrilled about being in a video.” I drag the back of my hand across my now-sweaty forehead. “And I’m not sure I want to see her after that, anyway. It might be best if we never see each other again and forget it happened.”

Nate shrugs. “I guess.”

I do the same things every game day, the same things I did in Dallas. The Bears players quickly learned that I don’t like my routine interfered with. I don’t like surprises. I like knowing what game day looks like, where I’m going to be, what I’m going to do. When we’re on the road, I adapt my routine because we don’t have access to the gym like we do here at home, but I still have a routine.

I’ve already gotten my sticks ready and made sure my equipment is all good. We’ve had a quick team meeting to talk about our power play. Once I’m warmed up, I join the guys who are kicking a soccer ball around, for three minutes exactly. Then I move on to the rest of my routine, which I learned from my uncle Matt after my accident. He runs a big fitness facility in Los Angeles and works with a bunch of pro hockey players. He came to Winnipeg when I was strong enough in my rehab and started working with me to get me even stronger and back to being able to play. I still work with him, consulting with him once a month during the season and more during the off-season. I give him a lot of credit in my return to playing. There were some pretty dark days when I thought I wouldn’t be able to.

I head into the dressing room to get my equipment on. Easton’s already there and our eyes meet then bounce away from each other.

Yeah, things are still awkward between us.

I can’t stop the burst of bitterness that I taste every time I see him, remembering how alone I felt after the accident. I had family in Winnipeg and some old friends, and they were great, but Easton and Hunter Morrissette were my two best buddies. We were the leaders on the Warriors, the ones who had a chance at playing pro hockey. We were teammates on the ice but also off the ice, hanging out to study, play videogames, go to parties. We got each other—we all came from hockey families. We shared the same talent level, the same drive, the same goals.

It fucking burned that neither of my friends ever bothered to come see me when I needed them the most. They both walked away from the crash with barely a scratch, and that made it even worse.

I need to focus.

One thing I haven’t gotten used to here is where my stall is in the dressing room. I know I’m the new guy, but I have the shittiest stall in the room. The goalies have the spots closest to the door, obviously—they’re the first onto the ice—on the right of the door, and next to them, in the corner, beside shelves of spare helmets and extra laces and big goalie pads, is me. This spot literally stinks.

In Dallas, I sat with the other D-men along one wall. That was how our equipment manager arranged things. Here it’s similar. I know there’s some strategy to where guys sit, with rookies in the corners, veterans in the middle, quiet guys near ones who talk a lot. The first game I played when I had to sit here, it threw me off. The whole room was different, and yet the thing that bugged me the most was being stuck in this corner stall. I’m still not used to it, but I have to focus on the rest of my routine, the things I can control. How I get dressed, what I think about before it’s time to hit the ice for warm-up.

I have to be a warrior.

---