Page 16 of Only for Tonight
“Okay, let’s go,” the coach says, blowing his whistle. We get into place: me, Kirby, and Knox standing next to each other and looking over at the other side seeing, Lane, Patrick, and Owen.
“Easy-peasy,” Kirby chides. “Let’s set it up with Stevie.” He holds up his stick to me. “And me at the line. Knox, go center.”
“You guys have all the fun,” Knox whines as we all get ready for Coach to blow the whistle. The puck is at the blue line, waiting to be claimed. He sets up the play on both ends of the ice, the idle players standing in the corner waiting for their own time.
“I really don’t want them to win,” I mumble as I look over at Patrick, who smirks at me.
“Losers buy dinner,” Patrick declares from the other side, “next time we’re out of town.”
“Deal!” the three of us yell, and because they are busy talking and not watching Coach, they start a second after the whistle blows instead of right as he blows it. Kirby gets there before everyone, skating the puck back a little to let us all get into place.
The forwards get into the defense positions. One at each side of the goalie in the middle. “Go!” Kirby yells and I move beside him as Knox skates into the center position, right in front of the goalie to block his view of the puck. Patrick, playing up front, tries to stick out his stick to intercept the puck Kirby passes to me.
Kirby and I have been defensemen partners since we started here together. We can read each other with just one look. It’s why we are both plus eight in the standings. I have twenty goals in twenty-four games and twenty-eight assists. I’m now at number one in the defenseman category, with Kirby sitting at number four. I see Kirby look back at me as I try to determine if I can get a shot on Mars and if Knox can pounce on the rebound, but both Lane and Owen are on either of his sides. I pass the puck back to Patrick, who looks like he’s going to give it a one-timer, making the goalie go over to the side. However, I can see his eyes flicker once, telling me he’s going to pass it right back to me. The puck bounces off of his blade and it comes right back to me. I wind my stick up and it hits my blade in the middle, as I hit it straight to the goalie. It flies right up his shoulder blade in the top corner. The top of his shoulder getting a piece of it but not enough to push it over the crossbar.
“I believe that means,” Kirby gloats, “defense one, forwards zero.”
“Lucky shot,” Patrick says and I just laugh.
“He got a piece of it,” I remind him as we skate to the bench to drink.
“You guys can go,” the assistant coach tells us as he leans on the boards watching the plays being done. We skate off the ice, walking down the tunnel to the locker room. We’re the first ones off the ice, so I place my stick in the hallway against the wall before walking into the locker room. I take off my gloves before unsnapping the chin strap, taking off my helmet and placing it on the shelf right on top of my nameplate. Guys start to trickle in as I get undressed and head for the shower.
“We play Dallas tomorrow,” someone says as I get dressed, “and they’re on a winning streak.”
“Great,” I reply, thinking about facing off with Michael and Dylan. “Well, they have to lose eventually, might as well be against us.”
“You think your father is going to come to town?” he asks me and I shrug.
“We didn’t really talk about it.” I pick up my phone and send him a message.
Me: You planning on coming down for the game or is it supposed to be a surprise?
“It’s always a blast when your father visits”—he smirks at me—“and tells us stories about the things in his days.” I can’t help but snort when he says that.
“I’ll let you know and if he is, we’ll get something to eat with him probably before the game, since he’ll most likely be in and out.”
“Count me in,” Kirby says, walking away from me and heading toward the gym. “Going to get on the bike for a bit.” I nod at him as I reach for the baseball hat on the hook, putting it on backward before grabbing my keys, phone, and wallet. “See you guys tomorrow,” I tell them, walking out of the locker room and toward the underground parking.
I push the black metal door as I look around, heading straight to my parking spot. I pull open the handle to the door and hear the car doors unlock before getting in. As soon as I roll out of the parking garage, I dial my father. It’s a habit that started to form about seven years ago. A habit he used to have, too, when he was playing. He would always, and I mean always, call us. As far as I can remember, he would always call us as he was leaving practice when we were home. When he was on the road, the call would always come in at around five, right before he needed to lace up and while we were gearing up to eat dinner. Now that it’s the other way, I make sure we speak all the time.
“Hey,” he answers after two rings and I can hear he’s out of breath.
“You never got back to me. Did you get my text?” I ask him as I make my way toward my house. “Are you busy?”
“No, just on the bike,” he says, “trying to get my cardio up.”
“It sounds like you’re dying.” I laugh at him and he also laughs at himself.
“It’s been almost a month since I’ve been on this thing, and it fucking shows. Yesterday, I had to take three breaks in an hour.”
“Getting old, Dad, you have to embrace it.” I try not to laugh while I say it.
“Eat shit,” he retorts. “Why did you text me?”
“We play Dallas tomorrow and I was wondering if you are flying in with Nico.” I know Nico goes to every single game with the team. He may not travel with them but he meets them there.
“I was going to,” he admits, “but Victoria has a game out of town and your mother doesn’t want to go by herself, even though she said she did.” My sister is playing hockey at school and he’s been to every single one of her games, just like he did with me.
