Page 86 of From Ice to Home
“She’s EJ’s sister,” I turn to Liz, an idea forming in my head. One that’s sparking loads of excitement. “You remember EJ, right? You spent some time with him in Vegas.”
Liz takes a bite, catching a strand of cheese with her finger. “More like he rescued me from that other guy—what’s his name? The one who seemed to be on a mission?” Liz asks me. “He hadzeroquit in him.”
Avah’s face drops a little. “Yeah, that’s probably Declan.”
Liz taps her nose, her mouth too busy chewing a big bite of pizza.
Mona comes back into the room, holding four glasses in one hand, and the bottle of champagne with the other.
“We specifically asked for tickets to the game, with VIP locker room passes,” Mona says, placing the glasses on the table. “But I guess this will have to do. For now,” she adds, tossing a scorching glare in my direction.
She champagne popping sounds through the room, along with another blare of a horn on the television.
“This doesn’t feel like a champagne moment,” I mutter, dragging my fingers through my hair as I watch my now angry and frustrated husband skate off the ice. He hops the boards and snaps his stick clean in half across it. “They’re getting killed out there.”
Mona turns toward the screen, the score now 4-0 for the Canucks. “Listen, there’s always a reason to celebrate.” She pours a glass and hands it to each of us. “First, we have to drink to your marriage.”
We all take our glasses, holding it up with a bit of apprehension, not feeling the celebratory mood she’s clearly in right now.
“And second?” I ask, watching as Declan Murphy cross-checks a player across the ice, earning him a penalty. He skates toward the penalty box as they show the Rangers’ Head Coach chewing his gum like his life depended on it. The Canucks have the advantage of a powerplay right now, and the Rangers are down one of their best defensemen.
Mona’s mouth is open as she watches the replay.
“This game is brutal,” she says before smiling. “I like it.” She lifts her hand with the champagne glass. “Let’s toast to hockey. Because isn’t that just a metaphor for life if I ever saw one.”
We all drink to that. It’s already a struggle to swallow downthe champagne, and to make matters worse, the commentators’ voices echo through the room.
“Another turnover in the neutral zone from Lucas Walker,”the commentator says, his voice low and even.“That’s the third in this period alone.”
The other announcer responds without holding back,“He’s not skating with the same confidence. Whether it’s pressure, fatigue, or the Vegas headlines. He just doesn’t look like himself.”
Lowering my glass, the bubbles feel flat on my tongue. Worry digs into my chest, a blooming ache turning into guilt as I watch Lucas unravel on national television. I don’t know if I’m the one who’s supposed to hold him together, or if I’m the reason he’s falling apart.
20
LUCAS
“What the hell was that out there?” Coach shouts, flinging his water bottle across the room.
The sound of it colliding with the trashcan in the corner echoes through the space. Everyone is sitting in front of their cubbies, breathing hard, wiping down sweat and doing what they need to do to regroup in the fifteen minutes we have before the third and final period starts.
We’re not rookies. We’re not some expansion team. We’re the New York Rangers and tonight we’ve been playing like we don’t even belong in this league.
Mitch is icing his ankle from where he stopped a puck. If it wasn’t for that save, we’d be in even more trouble right now.
“They have thirty-eight shots on goal,” Coach growls, his face red as he reads our pathetic stats off the tablet in his hand. “We have seven. Seven!”
He turns the screen toward us, like a weapon. “Face-off wins. Twenty-three percent.”
This time he looks at me. “Walker, if you can’t get that puck to your team, then tell me now. Losing possession when we could’ve scored in two moves is unacceptable.”
He’s not wrong. My feet are slow, my passes aren’t connecting, and I’ve lost more face-offs tonight than I have all season. If I saw myself on film right now, I’m sure I’d bench myself.
Coach’s gaze sweeps the room.
“Where’s the urgency? Where’s the hunger? Did you leave it back in the States?” he yells, tossing the tablet on the chair next to him, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath. “Our plays are falling flat! Each and every one of them.”
No one meets his gaze, the unspoken truth hanging in the air. The Canucks are all over us. Every rush dies down before it starts. They’re shutting us down before we even get started, blocking the neutral zone and our passing lanes.
