Page 46 of Pickled
Owens passed the puck to me. I deked one of the Toronto defensemen, skidded to a stop and turned—but instead of passing back to Owens, who was skating into the perfect position, I narrowed my focus on the goalie, wound up, andlaunched a clapper over the goalie’s right shoulder. He had been expecting the shot to come from the left winger, and my slapshot had caught him off guard. Even with an impressive reach with his glove, he wasn’t fast enough to beat me and my (whatever-mile-per-hour slapshot).
The crowd was on its feet. Stevens gave me a fist bump, and the Fridge did the same. I rarely celebrated; it was too flashy. Ignoring Owens, I headed to the bench to hydrate and prepare for the next play. He shook his head as he skated past me.
So what if I didn’t follow the play? We were up one nothing in the first two minutes of the game. It was a great fucking start.
“Nice work, Bailey.” Coach patted my shoulder as he walked behind the bench. “Good instinct.”
Coach approved. Any guilt I had over usurping the play dissipated.
It was only then that I allowed myself to look. My eyes tracked along the red line, up the boards, past the plexi, to… empty seats.
She hadn’t come.
Air escaped my lips. Was I relieved or upset?
Ace flew past the bench, his hair flowing from beneath the Tigers helmet. His skating style was aggressive and fast but also light. He was often described as floating on the ice. He dodged our defense and crossed the blue line into our end. His focus was on the net. “He’s going to fake and go low,” I whispered to Jameson. As much as I hated the idea of a tie game, my chest puffed with pride as I watched my little brother dance around our defensemen. I held my breath as he wound up his fake shot. He was a good player but getting a little too predictable.
But instead of dangling the puck and tipping it in low, Ace dropped the puck back to a Tiger defenseman. The slapshot echoed through the rink like a gunshot, and a collective breath-hold sucked the air from the fishbowl as the puck rocketed to the net. The stadium exhaled as our goalie snatched the puck out of the air.
“I thought you said he would take the shot?” Jameson’s eyebrows were raised behind the plastic protection of his helmet.
The pass was a surprise. I shrugged, not bothering to take out my mouth guard to reply. I would’ve bet my Porsche on Ace taking the shot—and I would’ve lost it. If Ace had taken the shot, it would’ve gone in, I knew it with all my heart.
At the end of the first period, the game was still one nothing, for us. My rogue play had benefited the team. It wasn’t a team player thing to do, but maybe the team player thing was overrated. Look what happened to Ace.
Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I had looked at the seats, and now I was relieved that I didn’t have to avert my gaze. I could focus on the game. But… I was also disappointed. The first thought that had gone through my mind when the goal light lit red and the foghorn sounded was “I wonder what Piper thought of that.”
Shaking my head, I followed the team into the dressing room. For the rest of the game, my focus was going to be where it should’ve been the entire time—on hockey.
The team was still pumped, but something had changed in the dressing room. The only guy who spoke to me was Jameson, and Owens wouldn’t even look at me. Coach came in and went over the plan for the second period.
“It’s early in the season; we need to solidify our team dynamics. This is a team, not a lone wolf with backup.” If there was any doubt whether the team comment was directed at me, it was cemented with the wolf comment. Coach ended his speech with the line,plan the play, play the plan, while staring directly at me.
He was right. But would we have gotten the goal if I hadn’t taken the shot? We would never know. I hadn’t wanted to let Owens get the goal. It was stupid—I was letting a trivial thing eat away at me. So what if Owens didn’t call me? I’d started the season with the Barracuda with the intention of being a team player. My actions in the first period were a play from the old Gideon playbook—and I knew how my career was going to go if I kept reading from those pages. Animosity would kill this team faster than any of its players could skate. I stood and walked over to Owens, taking a seat next to him. I didn’t have to look up to know that all eyes in the room were on me. I could feel them. “Hey, buddy. Sorry for not executing the play like we practiced. I saw an opportunity and—”
“Took it.” Owens smiled. “It was the right move.”
My shoulders relaxed. I hadn’t realized they had been so tense I could’ve worn the damn shoulder pads as earmuffs. “Thanks, man. I know that you would’ve sniped it.”
Owens held up his hands. “Don’t think any more about it. We’ll get another one in the second.” He held up his index finger as though to pause the conversation. “We’ll get at least another one in the second.” A crooked grin spread across his face, revealing his missing tooth. A lot of the guys didn’t wear their fakies during the game. “I read about that neurolinguistic programming you’re always going on about.” Thes’s inneurolinguistic coming out asneurolinguishtic. “I used to think that positive thinking was bullshit, but I think it’s… working.”
It didn’t seem like the words of someone who’d tried to sabotage me. “Keep going with it. It gets kind of addictive.”What are you up to?I wondered.
Owens took a gulp from his water bottle. “I like the visualization stuff. I use it for hockey and… other stuff. My bunny game has been on point.” The sides of his lips turned up. He watched me closely as he took another sip.
There was the immature player I knew and currently… hated? Or did I?
He stretched his arms over his head. “Where’s my ‘grow up and be professional’ lecture, Mr. Serious?”
With his tooth gap, he sounded so ridiculous I couldn’t help but smile. “Why don’t you get a permanent toof?”
He cocked his head, studying me. “That would be bad luck.”
“Right, luck.”
The room got louder as the players started to get ready for the second period. Helmets went back on, skates were tightened, and talk turned to the game.
“I forgot, you’re not superstitious.” Owens snapped the strap of his helmet under his chin. “How was your pre-game routine today?” The glint was back in his eye.
