Page 2 of The Girl in the Hockey Jersey

Here goes nothing.

Chapter2

Kieran

I like playing in Buffalo.The hotel we stay at is right next to the arena, and there’s a good steakhouse that will keep a private room open for us if we win and want to burn off a little excess energy with a good dinner and some socializing.

Stanzi has someone on speed dial, too, so there are always pretty girls. And lots of Canadians come to the games, which I appreciate. Their fandom hits differently, something I’ve been craving lately.

And this season—my first playing for an American team, one that’s not doing well—I need to focus on the little things Idolike about how the game is going for me. Like tonight’s win. Fuck, that felt good, after two losses in a row.

Less great is the “It’s not you, It’s me” text I got before the game from the woman I’ve been seeing in Phoenix. She’s not wrong to break things off. I’m hoping to be traded again sooner than fucking later, and I’m always on the road, anyway.

That I’m mostly bummed about the loss of a satisfying blow job is probably a sign that it was, in fact, me.

I finish up in the dressing room, thank the equipment guys for their hard work in getting our gear all packed up, then hit the locker room to shower and collect my personal belongings. Tonight’s suit is blue, the leather shoes are brown, and the tie is covered in hockey sticks. Because we’re in Buffalo in the dead of winter, there’s also a wool overcoat and a toque. The winter hat is also covered in hockey sticks.

Bespoke dork, a men’s magazine recently proclaimed in a four-page spread I did with them. I can embrace that. Life’s too short to take fashion seriously, but a well-tailored suit just feels good to put on.

So does a toque covered in hockey sticks when it’s minus fifteen. Celsius. I still haven’t figured out the Fahrenheit conversion.

On my way out the players’ exit, a few fans call my name. I stop and sign a Montreal jersey, ignoring the pang in my chest.This is the job. Everyone gets traded at some point.

I just didn’t expect it to be me. The kid from Winnipeg, drafted by Montreal. Gold medallist at the World Juniors, then the Olympics. Canadian boy through and through.

After spending six years reigning supreme over the best team in the league by the only standard that mattered—the fervour of its fandom—one could excuse me for thinking I might spend my entire career in Montreal.

Now I live in a desert and play in a half-full arena with teammates I don’t mind, but I think they’re all phoning it in.

There’s no heart. Even when we win.

“Have a good one,” I say, waving goodbye.

We’re spending a second night in Buffalo before travelling on to Colorado tomorrow. We’re often wheels up after a game, but Buffalo’s hotels are relatively cheap, and there’s not too much trouble for players to get into when it’s this fucking cold outside.

Just ahead of me is Stanzi, talking people into coming to the steakhouse, because it’s not mandatory, not like team dinners the night before a game. And everyone knows Stanzi will have something fun planned for after we eat.

Am I going? Fuck yes. The only way we survive this year is if we celebrate the wins. Heart? That comes from team bonding.

I clap our captain on the back. “Come on, bud. It’ll be a good time.”

“Can’t, man. Gotta get back to the hotel and call my kids.” He glances at his watch. “It’s bedtime in Arizona.”

There are a few others who bow out. A lot of guys don’t drink on the road. I’ve never found that a good time impacts my ability to play, but I respect those who are diligent about things like diet and getting a good night’s sleep.

Me? I’ll go to bed buzzed at three in the morning after partying with the young bucks.

The crowds have dissipated by the time we’re outside. It’s too cold to linger on the street, so we hustle to the restaurant. The hostess greets us with polite familiarity. We aren’t the only visiting team that comes here. Most probably do, unless a player is from Buffalo and can convince their team to go to an old favourite haunt.

We eat first, in a private dining room. I have a steak with a side of charred broccoli and a double of rye on the rocks. Two of the girls Stanzi has on speed dial, local social media influencers, join us, and they talk up a gathering they’ve organized at our hotel. I’m always antsy after a game, and it takes a while to wind down. Sure, I’m up for a party.

I’m always up for a party, but I just got dumped. Marsh is on the prowl tonight.

We file into the suite, the younger guys going ahead of me. It’s full of people, and there are drinks everywhere.

I’m about to shrug out of my overcoat when a woman in an Arizona jersey bumps into me on her way to the door. I recognize her winter hat. I’mwearingher winter hat.

“Nice toque,” I call after her, my gaze lingering on the glossy brown hair sliding out from beneath the hat.

---