Page 25 of Powerless
And for the next several games, it doesn’t get any better.
7
Jasper
Sloane:Have I told you that you’re my favorite goaltender in the world?
Jasper:You have bad taste.
Sloane:You’re still my fav.
Jasper:You might be the only one tonight.
Sloane:Correction. Favorite hockey player. Number one fan right here.
Jasper:Know a lot of hockey players, do you?
Sloane:Only the best one. I’ll be at the player’s exit.
Aloss never feels good, but somehow tonight feels worse. I’ve started four games in a row because this organization trusts me. My coach trusts me. And we’ve lost four games in a row. This entire home stand straight down the toilet.
It weighs on my shoulders.
I’ve let my teammates down. My coaches. The entire city, who is so invested in this team’s success.
I feel like I let Beau down somehow. Like I couldn’t even win it for him. I’ve also been a miserable asshole to everyone around me. And I let Beau down in that too, because that man would plaster a smile and be kind no matter what.
Then there’s the heart-stopping blonde who’s been up in the skybox every night, supporting me. I spend the games trying to keep myself from looking up at her as I sit on the bench, beating myself up. As though I’d be able to make her out up there anyway.
Tonight I’ve showered and changed but I’m disappointed. I’m sad but I’m also angry. I walk down the back tunnel toward the press gallery. I hate this part of my night after good games, but I don’t even think there is a word for how it feels to string together four shit games in a row and then be forced to talk about it on the record.
Torture, maybe.
I know I’ve played bad. My team knows. The reporters know. And now we’re all going to sit down and talk about it publicly. Fucking perfect.
The minute I step onto the stage with a long table on it I hear the snapping of cameras. A few journalists Irecognize say their hellos. I give them a terse nod and fold the brim of my hat. Then I pull out a chair, sit down next to my coach, and take a deep breath.
First question comes from a reporter I’ve seen before, one who always asks the most obnoxious questions. Like he’s intentionally trying to trip us up for a flashy sound bite. “Hi. Mike Holloway from the Calgary Tribune. Jasper, why don’t you tell us what happened out there tonight?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. That’s not a question, and he knows what happened out there tonight. He saw it. Making me recount it to him is just a dick move.
“Well, Mike. As you saw, I wasn’t my best tonight. Not even close. I know what the team needs from me, and I couldn’t deliver. There were a couple goals I’d have liked back, then they had a couple good chances and just got the best of me. Obviously, those are saves I need to be making if we’re going to make a run this year.”
“Yeah,” the slightly round, middle-aged man replies. “Thank you. Follow up to that. It seems this is the new normal for you. Wondering what you’re doing to change things up? This year feels do or die for the team. Lots of people would love some insight into your training plans to get yourself back into fighting shape.”
I roll my lips together and nod, feeling a drop of water roll off the long ends of my hair down the back ofmy neck. My coach, Roman, glances at me but says nothing. He knows I hate this shit at the best of times, and he’s ready to jump in if necessary.
“Specifics are something that stay between me and the training staff. But I assure you I’m working hard. No one wants this more than I do. Definitely putting in the time with the sports psychologist. I’ll be refocusing on my mental game in the coming weeks. I can tell you that much.”
And it’s not a lie. My mental game is trash right now. I thought playing would provide me a distraction, but I should have listened to Sloane. If I had, I wouldn’t have let my team down this way.
“Pardon my saying so, but it almost seems like you might be a little too comfortable in the long contract you just signed.”
I blink at the man before me. The one who looks like he hasn’t exercised in years, let alone played any sport at an elite level in his entire life.
“Well, then. With your permission, Mike, I’m going to”—I hike a thumb over my shoulder—“take off and get to work on my training. Try to get myself a little moreuncomfortablefor you.”
I rise from the plastic folding chair and stand tall, hearing Roman jump in with some comment about keeping questions respectful. But I don’t really care. Fuck Mike and fuck this press conference.
