Page 81 of The Best Parts of Him
They were playing the Washington Undergrounds, a team they’d beat a couple of times this year. But the Undergrounds had turned their game around right before Christmas, and they’d clinched the first playoffs spot in their division. Tonight, they were playing as if this was sudden death.
Assholes. They wouldn’t give a fucking inch.
During intermission, Coach gave a motivating speech that essentially boiled down to a combination of “Get it together, guys” and “I know you’ve got it in you.” And Des got everyone revved up, leading a rousing—and very off-key—rendition of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” that Ryland was sure the Washington players could hear in the visiting locker room.
During the third period, Ryland created scoring chances for his teammates, but no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get the puck to hit the back of the net. Ryland could read the frustration on everyone’s faces. Felt it acutely himself, his chest a tight mess of anxiety and determination.
And then, Miles on the breakaway, tearing down the ice.
He shot...
The goalie caught it glove side.
The entire arena groaned. Ryland clenched his jaw so tight he’d give himself a headache.
“Goddamn talented Washington goalies,” he muttered to himself as he dropped onto the bench after his shift.
Miles fell onto the bench next to him, looking more heartbroken now than when he’d told Ryland about his divorce. “I thought I had it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Ryland said, even though he wanted to cry. They were so close.
But it was a good thing he wasn’t a betting man. He was on the ice for his final shift of the night—of the season—when they lost the game. The sight of all those disappointed fans wearily lowering their handmade signs hit him harder than it ever had.
Tears stinging the backs of his eyes, he held his head high. He wanted to curl into a ball, right here on the ice, and cry over the loss—they’d been so fucking close. So many times he’d imagined what it would feel like to make the playoffs for the second year in a row. He’d wanted so badly for his team to redeem itself after last season’s disastrous playoffs elimination that he almost couldn’t believe they hadn’t made it.
But despite not being in the playoffs, Ryland had had a good season. The team had had a good season. They’d come together, especially in the past three or four months, thanks in part to Ryland’s efforts to unify the team. He’d even implemented a new team meeting protocol after the new year, where five names were randomly picked out of a hat, and those five players had to tell everyone one thing nobody knew about them.
Of course, that tended to run the gamut from “I used to eat muffin wrappers as a kid” to “I have a fear of going bald” to “Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have gone to med school like my dad wanted.” But without fail, it sparked laughter or discussion—often both.
And, to his surprise, new friendships had formed out of those revelations, which had slowly broken down the silos formed by a super cliquey team.
There was still room for improvement—there was always room for improvement—but Ryland was looking forward to what next year brought even as he tried not to sulk about how this year had ended.
A kid wearing his jersey waved to him from behind the boards as he skated toward the chute, and he paused to wave back. The kid was probably eight or nine, standing next to what Ryland assumed was his dad, and he had the Pilots logo painted on one baby-faced cheek. His sign read, simply, Thanks for a great season, Ryland! You’re the best!
Tears threatened again, and a lump the size of a small mountain clogged his throat. In the coming days, sportscasters, analysts, and social media commenters would tear this game apart. They’d dig into every little thing that had gone wrong—ignoring all that had gone right—and they’d offer unsolicited advice on how to make the team stronger for next year.
And here was this one kid with his sign that looked to have been hand-painted on the back of a shoebox lid, reminding Ryland that there was more to life than making the playoffs.
He looked around for a puck to toss over the boards. When he didn’t find one, he pointed between himself and the kid and held up his hockey stick. “Trade you.”
The kid’s jaw dropped open and he nodded eagerly.
In short order, the sign was on Ryland’s side of the boards and his stick was on the other. Sure enough, the sign had been painted on a shoebox lid, yet Ryland held it as though it were a newborn puppy.
He took it to the locker room and propped it up in his stall.
Thanks for a great season.
A great season.
They’d made this one kid happy, and maybe that was all that mattered.
The mood in the locker room reminded Ryland of a funeral. At some point, Coach would come in to either console them or berate them—maybe both—and since it was the last game of the season, the press would probably be let in at some point.
In the meantime, most of the players sat around staring at their hands or into space.
Ryland removed his skates, stripped out of his uniform, and got the music going. Not loudly. Just something upbeat to get the blood moving.
