Page 44 of The Last Guy On Earth
Unfortunately, so do the Cougars. The game gets chippy in the second. The Trenton players are acting like goons, and my teammates react by getting frustrated.
“Man on, Newgate!” I holler, just before he gets clobbered. And in the next play, Wheeler gets mowed down after I try to warn him.
Christ. Either they’ve all gone deaf, or they’re deeply distracted. I end up playing tentatively, staying too deep in my crease instead of challenging the shooters.
Inevitably, a Trenton forward streaks down the left wing and fires a shot from the top of the circle. I’m slow to react, andthe puck beats me high on the glove side. The red light flashes behind me, and now we’re in the hole.
Fuck a duck. This is not how I wanted my first game to go.
I take a sip of water and push that thought out of my head. The puck drops again, and the Cougars try to rally. But our passes are just a bit off target. We get an ugly goal in front of the Trenton net. And then I manage to make a couple saves more by luck than skill. One shot deflects off my mask, and another puck catches my pad as I slide across the crease.
But I don’t look sharp, and I know it. During a TV timeout, I skate over to the bench, spraying snow on the boards in frustration. Clay leans over, his face in a serious frown. “Hale, stop fighting the puck. Trust your instincts and trust your teammates. This team ain’t that great.”
“Like I didn’t notice?” I say between clenched teeth. “If I needed your help, I’d ask for it. Sound familiar?”
There’s shock on his face as I skate off after my temper tantrum.
I need to get my shit together, and I need to do it now.
After the next face-off, Stoney gets a breakaway, thank God, and we’re up by one. But the third period seems to last all night, and we’re scrambling in our own end. I’m deep in my net, leaving juicy rebounds that my teammates are struggling to clear.
I’m not the only one who’s still playing sloppy, though. Trenton wants to win this thing with sharp elbows and illegal hits, and the Cougars respond with anger and careless passes.
“On your left, DiCosta!” I shout, and our D-man barely avoids getting flattened like a moth on a windshield.
It’s like they don’t evenwantto win this thing, and I’m so frustrated I could die.
Then the weirdest thing happens. A Trenton player named DiCosta challengesourDiCosta to a fight, and they almost go atit. But thenanotherTrenton player fights his teammate instead. Strangest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
But the Cougars get some kind of lift out of watching Trenton implode. When play restarts, I can feel the tide turning. Passes start connecting. My own movements are more crisp, more confident. I challenge shooters, cutting down angles and smothering rebounds.
With a minute on the clock, we’re still up by one goal. Trenton pulls their keeper and gangs up on our end, trying to push the game into overtime. It’s a scrum in front of the net, and I’m forced to make an ugly, sprawling save that’s definitely not highlight-reel material.
But it doesn’t matter. I hear the sweet relief of the final buzzer, and my team pours off the bench to celebrate.
My first game for Colorado is a win. We’ve stolen two points on the road, even if the victory feels pretty hollow.
As we file off the ice, I catch Clay’s eye, hoping for some sign of approval or encouragement. But his expression is unreadable, his gaze cool and distant. He turns away without a word, and I feel an unfamiliar pang of disappointment.
It’s nothing a hot shower can’t fix, and as I towel off and start to dress, my phone buzzes with a message. It’s from my dad, a simple one-line text:Proud of you.
Hell. That’s unexpected. I know my dad watches my games, but he’s a lifelong Detroit fan. It isn’t like him to use those words.Proud of you.
At least somebody is.
TWENTY-ONE
Clay
The team isin high spirits after the Trenton game, and I get suckered into paying for drinks in the hotel bar. One of my players has braced his iPad on the bar, replaying the Trenton vs. Trenton fight on a continuous loop while the bartender scowls.
Across the room, Stoney and one of the rookies are doing shots of top-shelf tequila, while my credit card gently weeps from behind the bar.
The fact is we’re the talk of the town, and we’re on a winning streak. I should be elated right now. Instead, I just keep shooting glances toward the entrance to the bar, watching for Jethro.
I really fucked up with him. I gave him a tongue-lashing the other night, because I was mortified that he’d seen me in a vulnerable moment. But a coach can’t do that.
If I wanted your help, I’d ask for it. He threw those words back at me tonight, and I totally deserved it.
