Page 63 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Let’s talk about this kid you called up to be Hale’s backup this week. What’s his deal? He seems to spend a lot of time explaining to Twitter that he’s a heartbeat away from his NHL debut. Look.” She whips out her phone to show me a post by Walcott.
I see a bunch of emojis I don’t understand, and,Probably getting my big chance tonight, I heard!
“What I want to know is—heard fromwho?” she demands.
Hell. “From nobody. I’m starting Hale in the net tonight, as you well know. The kid is just…” I sigh, and think of Stoney’s poster board, the one where he’s pasting everyone’s dreams. “What do they call it? Manifesting.”
Bess promptly rolls her eyes. “It’smanifestingto get a tattoo of the Stanley Cup on your groin. Telling social media that you’re a better goalie than a hockey legend is just obnoxious.”
“Agreed. I’ll have somebody talk to him before the night is out.”
“How about immediately?” She flings her arms wide. “I overheard him asking Hale if he wanted a coffee to help him stay up late enough for an eight p.m. game, Toronto time.”
For fuck’s sake. “I’m on it. Not every good hockey player arrives with passable manners.”
“Find him some manners in your equipment room, before I cover his mouth with hockey tape.”
“Noted,” I say with a sigh.
She drops her gaze. “Look, both Hale and I realize he’s underperforming expectations, and that it’s a problem. But you can’t solve it by hanging him out to dry. Nobody works harder than Hale.”
“Yes, ma’am. Agreed.”
By the time the puck drops and the game starts, I have a tension headache. A doozy. The pain climbs up my shoulders and into the base of my skull as I watch Toronto win the face-off and skate away with the puck.
Every game is hard, and some are harder than most. But this one starts out badly and quickly gets worse. Toronto scores on us about eight minutes into the game. The goal is a perfect storm—my D-men miscommunicate and lose the puck to a winger who moves it into our zone with speed, luck, and possibly even a little voodoo.
Three minutes later, the same player tries a wrist shot that Jethro can’t see because Wheeler dives into his line of sight to try to save the play.
It goes in. We’re down two in the first period.
Sometimes I can just feel a team’s momentum dropping off a cliff. And that’s what happens to my Cougars tonight. It doesn’t help that the Toronto crowd is deafening, their energy roaring through the barn every time their team touches the puck. It’s like a physical force, pushing us off the puck, throwing us off our game.
As our defense falls apart, Jethro takes a beating, both physically and mentally. His reactions are slightly mistimed, and I can see the frustration building in the set of his shoulders, thetightness in his jaw. He’s still fighting, but the puck seems to have a mind of its own tonight.
We manage to beat them back for another ten minutes, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide with a broom. Toronto’s next goal is a blistering slap shot, leaving Jethro too little time to react before it’s sailing past his glove and into the back of the net.
The arena explodes. I grip the edge of the boards, my knuckles white. We’re down by three, but it feels like thirty. My guys are skating like they’re in quicksand, their reactions always a step behind.
Jethro makes a few good saves as the period winds down, and I let myself hope that maybe we’ve weathered the worst of it. Maybe we can regroup during intermission, come out strong in the second. That’s the speech I give the boys, at least.
But hockey, like life, rarely goes according to plan.
As the second period starts, it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. Toronto comes out flying, their sticks a blur, their passes tape to tape. They’re playing like they can read each other’s minds, while we’re fumbling around like strangers on the ice.
Five minutes in, they score again. It’s a deflection off one of our own players, a cruel twist of fate that leaves Jethro sprawling uselessly as the puck trickles over the line. The goal horn blares, salt in the wound.
“This is a fucking travesty,” barks the rookie goalie from the far end of the bench. “The Wall could have stopped that.”
“For the love of all that’s holy, shut your damn mouth,” pants Kapski, who’s red-faced and dripping with sweat. “You’re not helping.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself. But as the game grinds on, I find myself watching Jethro more than any other player. He’s overcommitting on shots, leaving himself vulnerable to rebounds. His body language screams desperation.
And then Toronto scores again in a beautiful tic-tac-toe play that leaves Jethro completely wrong-footed. Before I’ve even caught my breath, they score again on a soft goal that squeaks through Jethro’s pads, the kind of shot he usually stops in his sleep.
I feel physically ill as I catch Murph’s eye and give a slight nod. He knows what it means. We’ve been here before, just not with Jethro. Not yet.
As Jethro skates to the bench for a TV timeout, his eyes are distant, unfocused.
