Page 102 of The Last Guy On Earth
Suddenly, we’re headed for the conference championship against Edmonton. We’ve leveled up. This is the furthest I’ve gotten in my coaching career.
This is it. My big moment.
And I celebrate by having a giant migraine on the first night.
“You okay?” Liana asks me before we head out to the ice.
“You okay?” Murph asks me behind the bench.
“You okay?” the trainer asks me, probably because I’m squinting.
“I’M FINE,” I snarl at all of them. Because I have to be fine. I have my clipboard clutched under one arm with the starting lineup clamped to it.
Edmonton is an older team than Dallas, and Hale has played with a few of their starters before. So I put him in the net to kick off the series. He starts off strong, stopping everything during the first period.
But familiarity works both ways, and Edmonton is determined to pick apart our game. When they find the right keys to unlock our defense, Hale starts getting shelled. I end up putting Volkov in for the third period, because we need a change of dynamics.
From the other end of the bench, Jethro’s jaw looks as tight as mine as we manage to push the game into overtime.
My headache tightens its grip, and I throw up during the break.
If this is the kind of fun Demski wants me to have, I might need to look up the definition of the word.
FORTY-FIVE
Jethro
We manageto win the first Edmonton game during overtime, but we don’t make it look easy. Hessler—a solid defenseman—tweaks his ACL. Newgate struggles.
And Clay? He looks like death, his face pale and clammy. It’s a migraine for sure.
I want to text him and check in, but I’m not a hypocrite. I can’t tell him to treat me like any other player and then coddle him.
On our day off, I do a lengthy practice with Demski and a heavy workout, but when Clay announces the starting lineup for game two, I’m not on it.
It’s a blow, but if I were him, I’d probably play Volkov again, too. It sends the right message to Edmonton.We figured out how to beat you and we’re going to do it again.
Unfortunately, we drop game two, and so I’m on for games three and four, where we split the results.
I’m on the bench for game five, and we win, but not decisively. Volkov struggles, missing a second-period shot that my dad could have stopped.
At least that’s what my dad says when he bitches about it afterward.
We fly back to Canada for game six, and when the starting lineup comes out, Volkov’s name is on that one, too. My first reaction is wanting to punch something. Since I’m a professional, I don’t.
The bench it is. At least I have a good seat for the game. And it’s hairy from the first drop. Edmonton comes out swinging, desperate to stay alive in the series. They score within the first two minutes, catching Volkov off guard with a quick wrist shot from the slot.
The hometown crowd roars, and the tension on our bench ratchets up several notches. That goal wasn’t supposed to happen.
After the face-off, our guys fight back. We answer the goal at the ten-minute mark. But on the other end of the ice, it’s clear to me that something’s off with Volkov. His body language is stiff. He makes a few good saves, but he’s fighting the puck on every shot. I watch him grimace as he gets up after a particularly awkward stretch to make a glove save.
“You seeing this?” Stoney mutters from beside me on the bench.
I nod, my eyes never leaving the ice. “Yeah. He doesn’t look right.”
Edmonton scores again late in the first period. This time it’s a soft goal, one Volkov should stop easily but doesn’t. He fishes the puck out of the net, frustration etching his face.
During the intermission, the locker room is tense. Clay gives a pep talk, but he glances over at Volkov with concern. Our starting goalie is sitting quietly in his stall, rolling his shoulders.
