Page 2 of Finders Keepers
“For the players who don’t win? Yeah, it’s salt in the wound.”
A couple more kids raised their hands.
“Okay, two more,” said Tim Wilder, the Cup’s other handler, from the back who was in charge of keeping them on schedule.
Nate pointed at a couple of kids of color and held up a hand before either could speak.
“A few things before we get these guys’ questions. First, I want to say how cool it is to see these guys here. Players of color have never had an easy time of climbing the hockey ranks. I hope with all my heart that there aren’t any kind of -isms or -phobias going on in this locker room. Second, some kinds of differences can’t be seen. I’m talking about learning disabilities and I’m talking about anyone whose sexuality is to the left or right of dead center cis-gendered heterosexuals.
“Third, I’m an ally. I’m empowering the coaches and you, the players, to put a stop to the worst kind of trash talk. These are your friends. At the very least, these are teammates, and hockey is a team sport. Look out for each other on and off the ice. If you’re tearing someone down to get ahead, you’re not just failing them, you’re failing the team, you’re failing hockey, butmost of all, you’re failing yourself and the fans. Be the kind of player people want to love, not hate.”
Nate examined the faces of these young men. All eyes were glued to him either directly or through the screen of their cellphone. Some nodded. Some appeared thoughtful. One or two sets of cheeks took on a rosy hue. Whether from guilt or discomfort, he didn’t know and didn’t care as long as his words were making an impression.
“And fourth, if you need help for any reason or know someone who does, you call this number…pull up your Notes app or whatever.”
Most phones dropped as the boys did as instructed. “What’s the number, Claire?”
She stood next to Tim once more, her expression neutral, and rattled off the hotline number.
Once most of the boys had their phones up and eyes on him, Nate continued. “This goes for anyone—coaches, staff, management. I don’t care how old you are or what your gender is, what your race is, or what your sexuality is—if you need help or you know someone who does, you call that number and help will come.
“Now, you—” Nate pointed to the kid who looked to be of Middle Eastern descent.
“Um, my question is for Mr. Jarvis…what’s it like, traveling with the Cup?”
Mr. Jarvis grinned, teeth and hair as white as the gloves he wore. “Extraordinary. I’ve been to some beautiful places around the country and around the world, seen some special moments, touching moments. But those are private, so you don’t get any details,” he said with a wink.
With a nod from Mr. Jarvis that he was done, Nate pointed at the other kid who’d raised his hand earlier. “Okay, last one. Montel.”
“Do you have any advice for making it?”
Nate gazed at Montel and then at the rest of the group. “Learn your own shortcomings and work to improve them. Ask your coaches for input and work on those things. Look to the longest tenured or best guys in the game. Why are they still around? There’s a guy on the Dallas team, thirty-seven years old, still contributing at a high level despite never really having the legs. Why? Because he’s practiced tip-ins and deflections every single day. He gets to the net and he waits. Why is that guy from Pittsburgh still one of the best in the game despite being in his mid-thirties? Because early on, if someone said he had a hole in his game—guess what he did?”
“He worked on it,” said a voice.
Everyone chuckled, including Nate.
“That’s right, he’d spend the following off-season fixing or learning or honing. He’s still at the top of his game in his mid-thirties because he worked on anything and everything, honed his 200-foot game. Does he have innate skill and a hockey IQ off the charts? Yes, he does, and that certainly helps. But not everyone is in that tier. The League has just under a thousand roster spots and there’s only a handful of the Gretzkys, the Lemieuxs, the Crosbys each season. The rest of those spots are filled with grinders like me. Like you. We do what we have to do to be the best player we can be.
“But…” The anticipation ratcheted up just a hair. “…that doesn’t mean we should tear someone down to the point they quit. Or kill themselves.”
The room went silent. Shit. Nate hadn’t meant to circle back around to hazing or bullying, but there he was. “Play hard, play clean, be kind.”
Maybe if someone like him had said something like that while he and Jacob were in school, Jacob would still be alive.
Discomfort rippled through the room, but Nate let it linger. He scanned the now-solemn faces. If that unease saved a life—totally worth making them squirm for a bit.
After a respectful moment of time, Tim moved toward the Cup. “Okay, gentlemen, time for us to go,” he said, his moderate tone carrying in the hushed room. “File past Nate and shake hands.”
While Mr. Jarvis and Tim bundled the Cup back into its wheeled case, Nate shook hands.
Mr. Jarvis and Tim headed for the car a few minutes later and once Nate finished the handshake line, he joined Claire in the hallway, heart thumping.
Nate’s stomach churned harder at her compressed lips and wide blue eyes. “What’s wrong?”
She handed him his phone, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. Call Wade. You’ve been traded.”
The words hit him like a slapshot to the gut. Nate leaned against the dingy beige wall, his phone heavier in his hand than the Stanley Cup itself. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly. His mind roared with memories of the season—the triumphs, the camaraderie, the sacrifices. His fingers tightened around his phone. Traded? After winning them the fucking Cup? A thousand questions fought for space in his head, but all he could say was, “Fuck.”
