Page 10 of Love of the Game
“Yes, Coach.”
He waved at his door. “Go home and take a nap.”
I nodded, then retreated the hell out of there. The drivehome soothed me, to an extent, but I never could nap before games. I always itched to go. I just fucking loved being out there.
And tonight’s game promised to be very interesting indeed.
CHAPTER 3
DRAKE
Oh my God, this sucked. I sucked. Everything sucked. I sat on the bench, gripping my stick so tight, it was a wonder I didn’t snap it. Halfway through the first period, I put my helmeted head down on the edge of the boards in front of me and hoped that maybe the universe would swallow me whole.
It did not. Instead, Jonny Eriksson’s voice sounded in my ear. “Hey.” Then he rubbed circles onto my back. “Breathe. It’ll be okay.”
I lifted my head and checked the scoreboard. The Gators were still up two goals to our none—two goals that my shitastic play had caused in the first five minutes of the game. Coach Macintosh had benched me after that, running shifts with eleven forwards rather than twelve. It was a non-subtle way of telling me I fucked up big time and couldn’t be trusted on the ice. “We’re losing. Because of me.”
“Yeah, I know. It happens.” I could practically hear the smile in his voice. “That’ll change.” He nudged me. “Look.”
I focused on the action in the defensive end—near ourgoaltender. An Otters D-men and one of the forwards (I hardly knew anyone’s names) were battling against Gators players along the boards. The puck came free and right to the tape of another Otters forward, then the team was breaking out of their zone and heading up the ice for a three on one rush. A few seconds later, the puck was in the back of the Gators’ net, and I was on my feet along with the rest of the bench and the crowd as the goal horn sounded and the goal song blared out around us.
“See?” Jon said. He put one arm around me as we leaned out to give our teammates fist-bumps. “Atta boy, Lou! That’s the way to do it, guys!” he called out.
When I sat, before Coach sent Jon’s line over the boards for a faceoff, I got a full view at that beaming smile of his. “You know, you said ‘we’.” Then he was gone, and I sat there, stunned.
I’d said “we.” Our team. The Otters. The guys I’d let down. “I’m such a fuckup,” I muttered.
The player who’d taken Jon’s place on the bench gave me a quizzical look. He was familiar, but I couldn’t quite—then it hit me. Training camp. Kid from Sweden. Had just come over. Was down in the minors to get used to the change in rink size. I couldn’t remember his name.
Fuck me, I really was a jackass.
But being down only one goal felt less hopeless than two. And by the time the period ended, Jon had been correct. The Otters—my team—had tied the game. Back to a clean slate. Mostly.
In the locker room, Coach gave a quick speech about sticking to our game and playing simple with attention to details. I swear he looked at me when he said that, or maybe that was my guilty conscience. Afterward, Jon handed me a sports drink, despite me spending most of the period ridingthe bench. I gave him a look, and he shrugged. “You’ll need it for next period.”
“You think Coach is going to put me in?”
Fuck, that grin of his. “Oh yeah. He will, to see how you respond.”
Great. So I’d better be better. “Got to earn back trust.”
He nodded. “Ice time is never a given.”
I rubbed the heel of my hand into my forehead. “I should know that.”
The Swedish kid was sitting to the other side of me. “Lots of change.” He gestured to his head. “Scrambles you up, yeah?”
I croaked out a bitter laugh. “Yeah.” Then I sheepishly added, “We met in camp, but I don’t remember your name.”
That got me hint of a smile from the blond-haired forward. “Alfie Joelsson.”
“Jolly,” Jon cut in. “We call him Jolly Green Giant.”
Alfie threw a towel at Jon. “You do not!”
Another laugh came out of me, one not quite as bitter. “What do you want me to call you?”
Alfie nodded. “Al is fine. That’s actually what they call me on the ice.”
