5. BILSON

FIVE

BILSON

The more time I spend with the team, the closer we get. I’m an easy guy to get along with; the only drama in my life is when it comes to relationships, so I’m gelling well.

Miles, on the other hand … He’s choking on the ice, which makes him desperate to please the team off the ice. Since he was only the backup goalie for these guys last season, he stepped up when he had to and impressed everyone, but now we’re heading into the regular season after losing every preseason game. I wish I could say it was because we’re all sucking on the ice, but we aren’t. Not totally anyway. There are the usual teething problems of a team welcoming newbies into the fold, but as a whole, we’re not doing too badly.

I’m sure the last game ending with a 7-0 shutout is weighing on Miles’s mind. Sure, we didn’t score, and that’s on us as offense, but we had so many shots on goal, and their goalie shut us down every time. The other team had way fewer chances to score, and Miles was like a sieve.

As we dress for our first regular game of the season, I can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. He looks like he’s going to vomit.

I cross the dressing room in my base layers and tap him on the shoulder.

He’s holding his pet rocks, one in each hand, running his thumbs over them like he’s patting them, and it might be weird for anyone else, but I’m realizing his weird quirks are a coping mechanism for him. At least, I think they are. I dunno, I’m not a shrink, but I’ve had my head shrunken enough to kind of understand.

He turns to me with something like fear in his eyes.

“Forget preseason. None of them counted.” It’s not the most reassuring thing I could say, but he needs out of his head. “I know it’s not that easy to do, but if you go out there tonight with that rattling around in your brain, you’re going to choke more.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re terrible at pep talks?”

I laugh. “Sorry. Just trying to help.”

Miles lowers his gaze. “It’s so much fucking pressure, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Do you? Like, if you screw up on the ice, the other team might score. If I screw up, it’s pretty much a guarantee.”

Damn. When he puts it like that …

“You know what I’ve learned in my many years playing?”

“Your many, many, many years? Go on.”

I narrow my gaze. “I’ll let you have that because you’re shitting bricks, but the biggest lesson I’ve learned is to let losses go. Don’t hold on to them. It will ruin you. This is a fresh start. A clean slate. Just remember that out there.”

He nods. “I’ll try.”

“And hey, if that doesn’t work, maybe go out there with the goal of not embarrassing us.”

“That doesn’t help. At all.”

“Okay. So the clean slate thing. Do that. Do you have, like, a pregame ritual other than your rocks?”

Miles closes his hands over them. “Shh. They can hear you.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you have any other ritual besides talking to your … pets?”

“No. Should I?”

“Doesn’t have to be anything big, but for me, I like to start each game the same way. It centers me.”

“What’s your ritual?”

“I bring two fingers to my lips, kiss them twice, and then send them up to the hockey gods in the sky.” I demonstrate.

“And people say goalies are weird.”

I glance down at his pet rocks but say nothing.

“Fair point. Can I steal yours?”

“Sure. See if it works for you, or keep playing around until you find something that helps center your energy.”

“I’d rather something that centered my point of gravity so I could be a wall against flying pucks.”

“One step at a time, Rook.”

“One step at a time,” he murmurs.

We fist bump before I finish getting dressed, and then we get out on the ice for warm-ups.

I get down on the ice on my hands and knees, making sure my knees and hips are stretched out and flexible.

Stoll joins my side. “Saw you talking to Miles. You think he’s going to choke again?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “You did not say that on the sacred ice and jinx him.”

“He can’t hear me.”

I glance over at Miles, who’s getting a feel for the ice, skating side to side in quick succession. Then, he drops to his knees and bends all the way back so he’s lying as flat as he can. I forget how much more flexible goalies are than us.

I have the urge to protect him. “It’s his first season as a starting goalie. He’s nervous.”

“Let’s hope he gets over those nerves quick. I’m too old to be diving in front of pucks.”

“He’s got this.”

Just before we leave the ice for the preshow to begin, Miles catches up with me and grins.

At the same time, we raise our fingers to our lips, kiss them twice, and then point them to the sky.

Fucking hell, I hope it helps.

Once we get started, I should be focused on my own game, but for the first five minutes, all I’m focused on is Miles and praying he doesn’t let one in. Every time Tampa gets possession, I hold my breath. And every time they take a shot on goal, I let out the biggest sigh of relief when he shuts that shit down.

If he makes it the entire first period without letting a puck past, I’ll kiss his goddamn helmet. I almost feel like a proud parent.

Just as I think that, Tampa flies down the ice, passing back and forth between the two forwards, our defense split, they take less than a second to score. My nerves for him ramp up. He looks utterly defeated, and I fear it’s the beginning of the end to his confidence.

But then, the hockey gods look down on us because one of the refs calls for a review of the goal. We all wait on bated breath, and the second the call is made that it was offside and doesn’t count, we all cheer. Except for Miles. He still looks defeated.

Okay, time to get my head out of his ass and up my own. Wait, that doesn’t sound right.

Once I’ve got my head in the game, it only takes Finch and me a couple of minutes to even the score. When the buzzer for the period sounds, we’re ahead.

We head down the chute, and Miles gets encouraging backslaps because that was an amazing period for him.

“Still got this?” I ask him.

“Feeling good. They got lucky, but not as lucky as we did with the offside call.” He winks. “They won’t get another one past me.”

I hope this is real confidence shining through and not overcompensating cockiness, but as we head back out there after the break, it doesn’t matter if it’s real or faking it until he makes it because he’s true to his word.

For the entire game, he doesn’t let another one in. And Tampa try. They try hard. They get more shots on goal than us, but like preseason where Miles had a rough couple of games, it’s their goalie’s turn.

It’s how we walk away winning our first game of the season. Miles showed up when it counted, and now we get to walk away with the W.

When Miles skates up to me as we’re leaving the ice, I throw my arms around him.

“You did good, Rook.”

“I’ve decided I’m going to do that every game. It’s so much easier than stressing about getting scored on.”

I laugh. “Amazing game plan. So we can expect a shutout for every game this season?”

“Yup.”

“It’s good to aim high, but that might be too high.”

“We’ll see about that.” He walks off with a spring in his step, and if it were statistically possible, I’d almost believe him.

I just hope that when his plan fails, he’s able to get back up.

The fuckingson of a bitch keeps it going for two more games. Three shutouts in a row. It’s two more than I thought he’d be able to carry it on for and almost unheard of for a rookie to have that many in an entire season, let alone in a row. And even though he got scored on twice in the game after that, we still won by a single point.

We’re all on a streak. It’s the best start to a season Nashville has had in a long time, and everyone is buzzing. Buzzing, but not overcelebrating. We’re not allowed to jinx a good thing.

But as we head for the airport for our first long road trip of the season, the good vibes aren’t enough to perk up my mood.

I’m somber and full of dread.

Sure, I’m excited to see Emerson and Katz, but I’m not so excited to face off with them. My friends. My ex-teammates in a city full of ex-wives.

We’re off to play Seattle, and I really wish it had been later in the season before I had to go back.

I get on the team plane and take a window seat, immediately putting on my noise-canceling headphones and disappearing into my own world. The only thing on my playlist is death metal because if I listen to any poppy love song, I might start crying. With my head on the window, my eyes closed, I try to drown out the sad voice in my head telling me I’m a failure. That’s all that’s left now when I think of Seattle.

My marriages. The Stanley Cup final that we lost last season.

Ugh. I am not this melancholy usually, and I hate when I get in this mood. It’s been barely there since I moved to Nashville, and while that’s been an adjustment, it’s also been what I needed.

The seat next to me dips as someone throws their big body into it, but I ignore them. That is, until there’s a tap on my shoulder.

I crack open an eye and turn my head. Miles is smiling at me like a puppy.

“We’re a bitch?”

I frown. “What you call me?”

He cocks his head before reaching for my headphones and exposing one ear. “Swedish Fish?” He holds up a bag of candy.

“Oh. Sure. Maybe some sugar will give me some energy.”

“Not feeling good?”

“Didn’t sleep well,” I mutter.

“Is it a sleep-deprived sex thing or a Seattle thing?”

“You know the answer to that. I’m still on my celibacy kick.”

His eyes widen. “Still? Are your balls okay, man?”

There are snickers around us from those listening in.

“Completely fine, fuck you very much.” I take some candy from him and pop them in my mouth, but before I can go back to my music, Miles lowers his voice.

“Is it facing your old team or facing your old city?”

“It’s not so much the city but the people in it.”

“Ah. The evil exes?”

That’s the thing I probably hate most. I wish they were evil, but they aren’t. “They’re not evil.”

“Anyone who steals someone else’s pet is evil. End of story.”

“Okay, yeah, that was an evil thing to do, but Hadley made a good point. I’m always gone. I can’t look after a dog.”

Miles throws his head back. “Aww, man, it was a dog? I thought it was like a cat or a hamster. Who the hell steals a dog?”

“She didn’t steal it. Technically. She … wouldn’t give him back.”

“Same thing in my book.”

Okay, now I’m sad again. “I really do miss that ugly fucker.”

“Hey, whoa.” Miles holds up his hands. “Even though she stole your dog, it’s not okay to call a woman an ugly fucker.”

I burst out laughing, and I think it’s the first time in days—ever since being reminded of this game coming up—that I’ve genuinely laughed. “I meant the dog, dipshit. I don’t miss her at all.”

“Oh. Thank you for the distinction.”

“Yeah, kinda important. I want to get in there, play the game, see Aleks and Dennan, and then fly to Edmonton. In and out real quick.”

“Easy. I’d say it’s like your sex life, but it’s more than you’re going to get anytime soon.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”