Page 52 of Love of the Game
One of his days off coincided with a non-game day for me, so after practice, I drove to his apartment. We’d ended up playing tourist in town—going shopping in the Strip District, then checking out the Warhol Museum before ultimately having dinner at one of the various restaurants in the city. This one, an Argentinean grill, was down the street from his place. Drake had snagged a reservation earlier in the day, and miracle of miracles, there were no crises, no phone calls, no asteroids falling out of the sky and obliterating the East Coast. Nothing. We walked into the place, got seated upstairs, and had a great meal.
“So,” he said, leaning back and gesturing around him. “This count as a date?”
“This is most definitely a date,” I said. “Want to split dessert?”
After we ate that, he came over, sat on my lap, and wetook several couples selfies, including one of him kissing me on the cheek. Those went onto Instagram.
An actual date. Had only taken a couple months.
Whenever he came to my place, the cats mobbed him. Come to think of it, whenever he came to the bar, the regulars mobbed him, too. I didn’t blame anyone—Drake was spectacular and fun to be with, now that he’d found his game.
His scoring touch was certainly back. On the Lions he was maintaining more than a point per game pace since his return. Lots of stories in the press about him rekindling his love of the game with the Otters, and he’d even penned a thank-you note to the fans in Greensburg.
I didn’t mind sharing him with fans—he was pretty much recognized anywhere we went in Pittsburgh, and more people were talking about me, albeit as Gunner Eriksson’s kid or Drake’s boyfriend. Or both.
During the All-Star break, I was very grateful we were able to steal away down to Sanibel Island. Neither of us had made our respective league’s team, mostly because that decision had been made for the NAPH during Drake’s slump.
He didn’t care. A long weekend at the beach, in the warm and sun went a long way to chasing away the wintertime blues, and it was just nice to spend time with each other that didn’t involve hockey. We ate, swam, relaxed, and read to each other. Honestly, couples goals, I guess.
I kind of kept waiting for the other shoe to drop—you hear so much about a relationship’s honeymoon period, before the friction sets in and you start squabbling at each other or something—but that didn’t happen.
“Did you and Papa ever fight when you were dating,” I asked my mother one afternoon in March.
Hertone turned concerned. “Are you and Drake having problems?”
“No. Everything’s fine. We’re good and happy. I think I’m more in love with him every time we see each other. I’m trying to figure out if that’s normal—there’s no handbook to look this stuff up in, and I’ve never been here before. Does that feeling…ever stop?”
She’d laughed at that. “If you’re asking me if I still look at your father and feel wonder that this man is with me, of all people—I do. If you’re asking me if we ever have our differences—well, you know we do. Not often, but you’ve seen us disagree.”
I had. Didn’t happen often, but sometimes they’d get into intense discussions about something and be on opposite sides. “I don’t know if I’d call that fighting, though…”
“Jon, the most important things in a relationship are love and communication. If you and Drake have that, none of your disagreements will seem like fights, either.”
Maybe that was true. Everything was so good and his felt sustainable. Drake was happy. I was happy. What more did we need?
The future would take care of itself, I supposed.
This game.Thisfuckinggame. I punched the top of the boards in front of me at the bench, and for once was glad Drake wasn’t here to watch me play. We’d been winning three-two when the other team had pulled their goalie and managed to tie things up with a minute-three to go.
We werethis closeto snapping our four-game losing streak. And now, not only did we have to hold on to preventthem from scoring again, the game was likely going into overtime. Which we hadn’t been all that great at, lately.
I knew seasons had their ups and downs, but I was getting pretty damn tired of this set of downs. The Otters were better than this current slump. A lot of fans said that we were missing our Dragon, and yeah, we could’ve used him, but even without Drake on the ice, we’d been winning games. Alfie had really stepped up, scoring seemingly every game.
But the past week and a half—all our luck had dried up.
Well, not all. As the seconds counted down, we did well to keep the puck out of our end. Even got some really good scoring chances—but no dice on a goal.
Well, overtime it was, then.
Mac and his assistants huddled us during the break to clean the ice. The first three out were Lou, Hardy, and Bike. They won the faceoff and got into the offensive zone. Even got a few shots off before the other team stole the puck. They didn’t get much time in our end, though, before we reclaimed it.
Our shift changes were good, and after another three guys went out, it was my turn, along with Bruda and Alfie. A little bit of a risk going with three forwards, but I guess Mac trusted how I saw the ice. Hopefully that confidence wouldn’t come back to bite us.
For a while, there were no chances. The other team’s guys had been out longer, and as we circled, I saw one of their guys hedging toward the benches. I think Alfie figured it out, too, because he dropped back while I crept forward. The instant their guy headed off, Alfie had the puck to me, and I was heading toward their goalie, as fast as I could go. My wheels had never been that great, but they were good enough that I deked their defenseman, faked aforehand shot, and backhanded the puck bar down into the net.
I pumped my arms up in celebration—and then I was upended. Tripped. Stick, foot, I don’t know how. All I knew was that time hung still, and I realized just how off-balance I was and how close the boards were. Fuck. Fuck!
Then everything happened in an instant. The impact. The pain. The shock. I was on my back on the ice. The goal horn was going off, the crowd was screaming, and Alfie looked scared shitless. Pale.
