Page 22 of Pucker Up
It was5:45 and the subway trains were already starting to get busy. At that time of day, it was all the hoity-toity business people dressed in their black and gray peacoats, marching onto the underground line after riding in from the suburbs on the Go Train. Like a salmon swimming upstream, I wove through the river of wool to find an empty seat on the train.
Earlier that year, I had been photographed on the subway, and for some reason, it had become a news item—a hockey star going to and from the games on public transportation. For me, it just made sense. I drove a giant vintage truck that didn’t fit in most parking garages, and it was faster for me to hop on the subway than to get a cab.
A few men gave me a second look, recognition flashing across their faces, but they were either too cool for school, or respectful of my privacy, to actually approach me. If I’d been on the train a little later, with normal people, not the type-A business crowd, fans would’ve definitely approached me. I settled into one of the red velour seats and scrolled through my phone, trying to decide whether to listen to a podcast, or blare some pre-practice tunes into my headphones.
I wasn’t exactly hungover, but I didn’t feel top notch either. Deciding to ease into the day, I clicked on a podcast called the Sin Bin. It was two retired players who interviewed guests about hockey. Closing my eyes, I crossed my arms and let the deep voices of a couple of legends fill my head. They were discussing all the fancy trick shots the young players were practicing. To me, the shots seemed gimmicky. I didn’t always agree with Jake McManus, one of the co-hosts, but on the subject of the fancy pants trick shots, I did. They were unnecessary, and players should spend more time focusing on the classics: drills, slap shots, wrap-arounds, wristies… I chuckled. Together, the classics sounded more like bedroom moves. I shook my head at my immaturity, and opened my eyes to an almost empty train. The Eglinton station signs flashed by on the tiled walls.
“Fuck.” I launched to my feet. Somewhere between Jake and his guest Andy talking about the Michigan shot, I had drifted off to sleep and missed my stop. Sprinting out of the train, I took the stairs three at a time, emerging into the darkness of the streets of Midtown. After I dodged a few cars, I was able to get on the train going in the other direction.
Before I missed my stop, I had a chance at getting to practice on time, but now there was no way I could get there before Coach Swanson started screaming.
“Where’s Banksy?”I skidded to a stop next to Holmes. He was leaning on the boards like they were the only thing holding him up. “He’s not here. Coach is trying to kill us. I’m convinced of it.”
“You look green.”
Beneath the plastic shield, the whites of Mike’s eyes were practically the same color as the centre line running beneath our skates. “I’ve already barfed.” He burped as he said the word and I glided away from the potential splash zone.
He held up his gloved hand. “Don’t worry, I don’t think there’s anything left in there. Ethan hasn’t shown up either. I texted him, but he didn’t answer.”
When a puck ricochets off the boards, it sounds like a gunshot. Usually, I loved the sound and it got me pumped up, but today I just couldn’t fake it. I was tired, but at least next to Mikey, I looked like an all-star.
Gideon kept his distance. Some of the other players shot me dirty looks, but he didn’t even look at me. My brother kept his cold gaze where it belonged: on the ice ahead of him. His talent shone, even through his shitty attitude. Although, he likely wasn’t hungover and had gotten more than three hours of sleep.
Coach was using the stupid parachute things that I hated. It was the same concept as the things that slowed down drag racing cars, only instead of bumpers, the parachutes were attached to us. They created drag to slow us down. Well, everyone but Gideon. The light fabric flapped as he charged down the ice to launch a scorching hot slap shot from the blue line. The water bottles that were sitting on top of the net clattered onto the ice.
Connor, one of the defensemen, inhaled in appreciation.
“That,” Coach shouted and pointed to the bottles as they settled next to the boards. “That’s what we have in our arsenal. If you can get your heads out of your asses and pass the puck to number eight, we could starting getting the W.
The W was a young man’s short form for win. I smirked. Coach was young, but he wasn’t that young.
“Is something funny, Bailey?” he shouted.
Gideon had looped around the net and pointed to his chest with the end of his stick.
“Not you.” Coach skated to where Mike and I had posted up against the boards. He skidded to a stop, spraying snow onto our skates, a bit of a dick move if you ask me. He fanned his face with his glove. “It smells like a brewery over here.”
“Well, it is just over there.” Mike pointed in the direction of the Steamwhistle brewery, which was just a few blocks away.
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Holmes.” Coach Swanson was frustrated, and I couldn’t blame him. I usually loved everything about hockey, even practice, even the stupid parachutes, but lately, I hated it all. It was like the wind had been taken out of those gimmicky sails. I didn’t think that I was the only one who felt that way. “You two, run the play that Jamie has on the board.” He blew the whistle and Mike and I skated into position.
As expected, Mike missed the pass, but it wasn’t his fault. I was slower than usual.
“Again,” Coach shouted. The rest of the team lined up against the boards to watch, analyzing every stroke. We flubbed the play again.
“One more time.”
I took a big breath, knowing that we were going to be running the drill until we got it right, or qualified for an old folks’ home, whatever came first.
We started the play, but to my surprise, Coach blew the whistle while my stick was mid shot. Instead of taking it, I completely abandoned the play.
“He never finishes anything.” Gideon’s voice was low, but everyone on the team heard it.
Hope flooded through my body. Gideon usually ignored me. Was this a step in the right direction? Or had we slipped one degree further apart? I didn’t know what was worse, being ignored, or being criticized.
Coach pointed at me. “Run it again. Bailey, take right wing. The rest of you, practice is over.”
Confused, I skated to the right side of the ice. I’m a left-winger, but I obeyed his orders.
