Page 2 of Trouble in Love
“I’d hate to deprive you of your spotlight, Sis, but this is … was my wedding, and this is my responsibility.”
You’re a hockey boy. Hockey boys do not cry.With the cruel words of my late father serving as a reminder, I swallowed the last shreds of pride, manhood, and self-worth and turned to face the masses.
“Well, since you all witnessed … that … I may as well cut to the chase. There will be no wedding today. Not for me, but who knows what Dallas and Clara will get up to.”
The smattering of nervous giggles that broke out somehow reduced the load of embarrassment riding on my back. “Just in case, take your gifts home with you. Clara always said,‘Regifting is an environmentally conscious choice as well as a tight-ass one.’”Taking the increasing laughter as a sign to get the hell out,I did. Wearied beyond my age, I managed a limp-wristed wave and pitiful bow of my head. “Sorry to let you all down.”
When Clara and I became engaged, my New York City team was floundering, losing eight games in succession. Making it past the regular season seemed like a pipedream, and in my mind, there was no better way to turn around a dumpster fire of a year-round than to marry the girl I loved. It would be the ultimate pick-me-up. A fresh start with my new bride and the off-season to convince her how good we could be together.
Our fortunes turned, though. The team booked a playoff spot. And my plans were screwed. Hence, me being in Toronto for game one of the postseason only three days after the wedding fiasco.
Despite the less-than-ideal lead-up, there was nowhere I would rather have been. Competing for that giant silver chalice was what I’d worked towards my whole life. Would I have preferred Dallas Brookes floating at the bottom of the Hudson, not standing behind me as Justin Bieber belted out Oh, Canada with surprising emotion?
Sure.
But as recent events proved, you can’t always get what you want.
With the anthems done, Beibs dropped the mic, and the fans picked it up.
“D’Cruz! Are you going to let us score like you let your buddy score with your girl?”
“Hey, Brookes. Is that a puck in your pocket or D’Cruz’s dick, pride, and will to live?” And it wasn’t just assholes with big mouths. There were glittering signs, too. Some clever:
Brookes in D’Cruzing for a D’Bruising.
Some not.
Hey D’Cruz! Brookes was fucking your wife.
“Not my wife,” I muttered after spotting that one, my face red from embarrassment more than exertion.
The humiliation was bone-crushing and showed in my game. From the first puck drop, I was as slow as a snail in molasses, screwing up set plays I could normally pull off in my sleep, misreading my teammates, then giving away cheap penalties, and the worst thing? My shit play was contagious. At the end of the first period, we were 3-0 down.
“This is a goddamn final, and you’re playing like it’s your beer leagues open bar night. And you, D’Cruz,” Our coach, Malcolm Brown, turned to me, his eyes burning holes in my pads as his still-muscular legs paced the length of the locker room. “Pull your head out of your ass.”
I’d idolized him as a kid. Side by side, he and his younger brother Jason won four Stanley Cups. Playing how I was in his presence was almost as mortifying as being left at the altar.
Shame scorched my insides, and it must have been clear. Mid-tangent, Brown’s eyes, those dark pools of knowledge that had made and witnessed hockey history, caught mine and softened. Pausing, he took a knee beside me.
“Kid, look. I know you’ve had your heart ripped out through your dick, but you’ve got to pick yourself up and dust yourself off. The less I say about Brookes, the better, but you? You’re a goddamn champion. Go out there and play like one. Show that girl she bet on the wrong horse.”
I felt more chump than champ, but the man had pushed for my drafting as an agentless seventeen-year-old. I had to believe in me like he did. There was no other choice.
Don’t let him down, too.
“Yes, sir.”
A dozen burly, grunting giants converged, all but one of my brothers echoing the sentiment amidst a flurry of ass slaps and fist pumps.
Back on the ice, my calloused hands clenched my shaft, my mind coach’s faith. Every ounce of it was needed. The Canadian’s brand of hockey was fast and dirty. To them, I was wounded prey—a lame springbok in the sight of a lion pack. Cross-checks and chirping were plentiful. Roughing was rife, but nothing could touch me. Everywhere the puck was, I was, clearing our defensive zone time and time again, then following up in offense with three assists in as many minutes, the last drawing us level at 3-3 and earning a “Fuck, yes. Keep it coming, kid,” from Coach.
A tiny sliver of who I once was … who I could again be, began to shine through. But confidence is a feeble thing. Easy come, painfully gone.
“Hey, DickCruzer,” Wingman for the Canadians, Grayson Macon chirped, his rank breath fogging my shield as we huddled for a face-off in our defensive zone. “Isn’t that your girl in Brookes’ jersey?” There was every chance he was baiting me; I knew that. Regardless, my eyes followed the direction of his nod. The world around me stilled, all but one face fading into insignificance.
There she was, Clara. Fucking gorgeous with hair pulled up into a messy bun secured in ribbons the color of her man’s team. My team. Stray ringlets caressed her perennially rosy cheeks, and yes, as Macon pointed out, Dallas’s number 32 was stretched across her ample rack. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“Wake the fuck up, D’Cruz. Your pathetic ass will cost us the game.” With a stinging snap, everything came back into focus. Shania Twain blared overhead. The stadium was erupting.My buddy, Macon, had scored, and Dallas, red with rage and breathing fire, was in my face, making sure I knew all about it.
