Chapter 15

Foster

Forty-five minutes still stretch out ahead of me, a slow drip of time before the clash of blades against ice signals the start of the first game of the regular season. I’m in the heart of the locker room, echoes of anticipation hanging thick in the air as my teammates get dressed. My own pregame ritual begins. The base layer goes on first, followed by a second, breathable armor, contouring tightly against my muscles. I secure my shin guards, each click of the straps a familiar sound of comfort, and then pull on my socks.

I work my way into my hockey pants, the durable fabric embracing foam padding that provides further protection. I draw the traditional laces tight and throw in a double knot before cinching the adjustable buckle. I don’t bother with my shoulder or elbow pads yet as it will be easier to get my skates on without them.

Lowering myself onto the wooden bench in front of my cubby, my blades await their call to action. I pull them on, laces weaving through my fingers with practiced ease. It’s a monotonous movement and each piece of gear is more than just protection. They represent fragments of my identity as a hockey player and once that jersey of white, purple and gray goes on, I will be transformed into a warrior ready to step onto a frozen battleground.

Usually at this point, my mind is thoroughly immersed in the game to come. I’m thinking of strategies and envisioning plays I’ve worked on all week with my line mates. Our second line is cobbled together—a mixture of old and new. My defensemen remain the same, Camden and Hendrix, and we have a season and a half under our belts. That’s countless hours on the ice together, learning each other’s moves and how to anticipate a pass just from the twitch of a shoulder.

But new to our line is Atlas Karolak at left wing and North Paquette at right wing. We worked hard this week doing drills together and then watched footage of those drills, discussing things we would change or explaining our reasons for certain moves. We developed and solidified a sort of language by which we will communicate on ice and we took all our meals together during the day.

Learning to work as a fluid unit is more than just practicing together. It’s about building trust, and I have really good vibes coming from the new guys, as I know Camden and Hendrix do too.

As I finish lacing up my second skate, I try to think of the game and focus on the job I need to do. But instead, visions of a beautiful redhead keep popping in. It’s annoying as fuck and this has been going on for the past three days—or rather, since that almost-kiss in my bathroom.

Mazzy wisely stopped us from making what could have been a huge mistake. But part of my annoyance in these continual thoughts and analysis of that moment is that it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like I was on the verge of doing something right and I don’t know why. It wasn’t even an actual kiss and is nothing that should be mourned.

And yet… I feel like I missed out on something monumental. It’s been bugging the shit out of me ever since she poured the metaphorical bucket of ice water on me.

She said it would be too confusing for Bowie Jane and that brought me to my senses. It would probably be confusing for me and Mazzy as well, so it was a good thing it didn’t happen.

Except… fuck… I really wish it had.

I cannot shake the feeling that it could have been the start of something really good. I mean, in my mind, Bowie Jane is a mature ten-year-old and I think she would understand and possibly even approve. She wants her parents to be happy. On occasion, she’ll ask me why I don’t date or why I don’t have a girlfriend. I always blow her off, telling her that she’s the only lady I need in my life. In my mind, I’ve just come out of a bad marriage and am not keen on starting up anything new anytime soon.

But Mazzy has certainly changed that.

And I likely can’t rid myself of these thoughts because my kid is crazy about Mazzy. I trust my child implicitly and she has judged Mazzy worthy of her adoration. I know I’ve certainly got my own thoughts on that because these last few weeks, I’ve learned enough about the woman to realize I want to know her better than just as Bowie Jane’s caretaker.

But… it’s probably too much confusion. It’s a bad idea for me to get involved with Mazzy, especially on the heels of Bowie Jane’s mom flaking out.

You’d think that after us almost kissing, things might be stilted and awkward between us the last few days, but on the contrary. Mazzy has acted like nothing happened. She’s been her bright, sunny self with both me and Bowie Jane. She mixes in her Mary Poppins, no-nonsense expressions, which are fucking adorable, and has engaged in conversation with me without a hint of unease.

In fact, she’s been talking to me as if that moment never occurred, fully comfortable in my presence. She doesn’t look at me strangely or hopefully or even with anger. It’s like she erased it and it never happened—and to be honest, I don’t particularly like that either.

I, on the other hand, have been stewing about it. All I can think about is—putting aside the question of how Bowie Jane would handle it—why I shouldn’t have taken that kiss. There is no doubt that Mazzy was right there with me. When we were in a quiet bubble in the bathroom with no outside influences or responsibilities, she was just as into it as I was. I saw it in her eyes.

The fact that I’m still thinking about it three days later and right before I’m about to play the first home game of the regular season tells me it’s a bigger burden than I’d anticipated. If I’m still thinking about it, it means I probably don’t accept Mazzy’s logic that this could be a bad thing. Granted, it could be sticky and messy and it might not work out.

But what if it did?

And for that matter, what the hell do I even want? Do I just want sex? I don’t think that’s it because I’ve already developed feelings for her. How could I not when she’s been so wonderful to my daughter? But maybe this will be casual, without commitment. Or maybe it would be with commitment but casual.

I really have no clue what I want because only two years after a divorce, I’ve barely processed the things that I knew I didn’t want. I think I need to commit to an ideal of what I do want before I go any further.

The real problem is not the potential of what could be between me and Mazzy but how it would affect my daughter. That right there is the great unknown.

“What’s up?”

I’m jolted from my thoughts as Boone sits on the bench beside me, similarly dressed in his base layer all the way up to his hockey pants. Skates in hand, he slips one foot in the left and starts lacing it up. “Looks like you were deep in thought. Sorry if I ruined some mojo you had going.”

“It’s all good. Just trying to get my head in the game.”

And failing.

Boone nods, head bent over his skate. He’s focused on his task and I wonder how he does it. He’s a man who, at the end of last season, managed to keep lasered in on his game all while befriending a young boy dying of cancer and subsequently falling for that boy’s sister, Lilly. That was a lot of shit on his plate and he handled all of it with such ease. More importantly, he figured out how to forge a relationship when a kid was in the mix.

A light bulb goes off in my head as I realize that Boone has had to navigate similarly murky waters that I face.

“Hey, man. Can I ask you something personal?”

Boone sits up straight and angles toward me on the bench. “Sure.”

“How did you know that it was okay to date Lilly when she had her younger brother to take care of? Weren’t you concerned that Aiden might not like that or be bothered by it?”

Boone stares at me intently, probably trying to figure out where this off-the-wall question came from. He ponders a moment before he replies, “To be brutally honest, Aiden didn’t even cross my mind when I was thinking about my attraction to Lilly. I think I sort of compartmentalized what I felt for her and what I felt for him.”

“But at some point, you decided to go for it?”

“Yeah. I mean, I knew that Aiden had to be okay with everything. He was the linchpin.”

“So you just talked to him? Said I want to date your sister and asked his permission?”

“Something like that. Luckily, he was all for it. He wanted Lilly to be happy.”

Could it be something as simple as asking Bowie Jane if she would be okay if I… what?

Kissed Mazzy?

Fucked Mazzy? Yeah, can’t talk to my kid about that.

Asked her out on a date?

That seems feasible.

The worst that could happen is my kid tells me it’s not a good idea or that she doesn’t want me to date Mazzy. And then I have to accept that.

But should I talk to Mazzy about this first? Should I ask her out on the date but let her know that I want to talk to Bowie Jane, or should I hit my kid up for permission first?

There’s no clear answer. But Boone has normalized dating someone when a child, who could be affected by the experience, is involved.

“You okay?” Boone asks.

I blink and focus on him. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Because that was a very specific question. Are you thinking of dating and worried about Bowie Jane?”

I give him a wry smile. “My nanny. We had a moment… there’s a spark between us. But it’s complicated because—”

“—she’s your nanny.”

I nod. “And I have to be careful because she’s developed a good relationship and bond with Bowie Jane. I can’t fuck that up.”

“So, talk to your daughter about it,” Boone says.

“She’s only ten,” I reply with worry.

“I’ve met your kid,” Boone says with a laugh. “She’s ten going on thirty. She’s absolutely mature enough to understand this.”

He’s not wrong about her maturity level. People are always astounded by it. “I know. You’re right.”

Boone stands from the bench and turns toward his cubby. He pulls on his shoulder and elbow pads. Glancing back at me, he says, “But I suggest you put all of that aside right now and focus on the game. Trust me… I know from personal experience how hard it is to be in the moment when you have other things vying for your attention.”

I rise from the bench and move to my cubby, grabbing my shoulder pads. “No need to tell me twice.”

Resolved that at least I have an action plan, I put Mazzy, and whether we could start something, firmly out of my mind. The Montreal Wizards are awaiting an ass-kicking.

?

I’m perched onthe edge of the bench, one hand gripping my stick, the other resting on the rink wall. I’m on next shift, ready to swing my legs up and over when it’s time.

The first line just got out there and my eyes are pinned to the action. The arena is a living, breathing entity—a whirlwind of energy and noise. Above, the bright lights dance and the flashing Jumbotron provides a close-up of the action. The sharp, crisp scent of ice fills my nostrils, and I can feel the eagerness of my linemates, raring to go out and do our job.

From my vantage point, the arena is an amphitheater of emotion, a place where every second counts, every play is pivotal. It’s a world unto itself, a place where the roar of the crowd, the chill of the ice, and the thrill of the game coalesce into something far greater than just a sport. It’s where I belong, where every shift, every pass, and every goal writes a new line in the story of who I am.

For now, we’re defending the Wizards down on our end. Drake McGinn is a hulking figure in the net with Bain and King providing additional protection. Penn, Stone and Boone float out, using their sticks and bodies to thwart a pass. I watch, my eyes tracking the swift, precise movements of my comrades. Their focus is palpable, a shared determination that weaves through us all.

The entire hockey world is watching us. The Pittsburgh Titans have been a top news story since the crash a little over a year and a half ago that obliterated our entire team halfway through the season. We’ve been watched with critical caution, everyone rooting for us to make something out of nothing. We were the darlings of the hockey world.

Now we’re being watched because management made a bold fucking move this summer, rolling the dice on one player for a long-term contract that cost a significant chunk of the salary cap.

Penn Navarro.

A prodigy that comes along once every few decades.

A man so talented on the ice that he alone could carry a team to greatness. I don’t mean that he can score every goal, make every assist, or defend every shot. No one is that good. But Penn’s energy, talent and competitiveness will elevate us all to do better. Add on top of that, Callum Derringer secured a fresh slate of new players to add depth to the lines and there’s serious talk that we could be the front-runners for the championship this year.

Of course, that’s all talk. It’s only game one and we have eighty-one games to go after tonight. If you’re seeking the big reward, it always comes with significant risk. The potential peril is that Penn doesn’t live up to the high standard he’s already set for himself. Worse, he gets injured.

And it’s more than just Penn. Granted, last season’s team had only been together for a season and a half, but we were as close as they come. There’s always a risk that a new crop of players joining the team won’t click. Sometimes there’s no figuring out how the synergy works and how it doesn’t.

But… if everything plays out the way Brienne Norcross and Callum Derringer are expecting it to, if Coach Cannon works his magic the way he did last year, and if we, the players, live up to our absolute potential, then this could be the biggest comeback in all of sports history.

It’s a lot of fucking pressure on our shoulders.

I watch as the Wizard forwards pass the puck back and forth, trying to find an opening created by their own defenseman battling against Bain and King in front of the goal.

But one pass is slightly errant and King makes a darting move to poke it with his stick. He gets just enough on it that it changes trajectory right onto Penn’s blade.

It’s sheer poetry watching this dude because he takes off like a high-powered bullet, straight up the middle. The roar of the crowd engulfs me, a tidal wave of sound so loud I can feel the vibration of thousands of voices through the soles of my skates. My adrenaline shoots hot through my system as I watch a Wizard player tight on Penn’s heels but without a chance of catching him. His only chance of stopping a breakaway goal is to take Penn down with a stick, which would draw a penalty.

The fans surge to their feet, a sea of white, purple and gray, their faces painted with passion and anticipation. Every cheer, every gasp, every thunderous clap resonates within the confines of this icy coliseum and seems to make Penn go faster.

He closes in on the Wizards’ zone and I expect him to juke the goalie at some point. Instead, he cuts his skates deep, coming to a hard and fast stop that sprays ice. The defender tries to stop as well but he’s not as solid on his skates and loses his legs. As he goes down, Penn spins to the right, his back now to the goalie to see who’s following him. Closing in fast is another Wizard defender, followed by Stone Dumelin, Penn’s left-winger.

The original Wizard defenseman is still sliding across the ice, so Penn turns back toward the goal and cuts hard left. The oncoming Wizard defender follows him, as does the goalie, angling his body to block a quick shot.

But Penn doesn’t shoot as every single person in this arena expects him to. I mean… he’s the greatest. Why not take that shot because chances are, he’ll score. I’ve seen that dude slip a puck into the net from down below the goal line, seemingly defying the laws of physics.

No, he doesn’t shoot, but instead executes the most gentle, floating, slow-motion pass I’ve ever seen right between the defender’s legs, backward toward Stone who is hauling ass down the ice. The pass is made with such finesse and precision that all Stone has to do is wind up and take the hard slap shot. His blade connects with the puck and because Penn drew both defender and goalie to the left, the net is practically open.

Stone doesn’t go for the slap shot but merely scoops the puck with the end of his stick and shovels it neatly across the goal line.

The moment the puck hits the back of the net, an explosion of sound erupts around me. I’m on the bench, but it feels like I’m at the epicenter of an earthquake. The arena shakes with a ferocity that resonates deep in my bones.

The crowd’s surprise, pride and elation crash over the glass and flood the rink. It’s a sonic boom—thousands of voices blending into a singular, triumphant cheer that rattles the very foundation of the building. I feel it in my chest, a resounding thunder that makes me feel like my heart is going to explode.

I look around at the Titans fans—our extra teammate. They’re on their feet, a sea of team jerseys and banners. Clapping, screaming, their faces alight with pure, unbridled euphoria. The energy is infectious, a tangible force that buzzes through the air so palpable, I feel like I could grab it with my glove.

On the bench, we’re all on our feet too, banging our sticks against the boards in a time-honored hockey salute. It’s a cacophony of sound, the clattering of sticks adding to the sensory overload. I watch as Penn, Stone, Boone, Bain and King crash into each other, a massive tangle of congratulations on a perfectly executed play. I can see my teammates’ mouths moving, shouting in triumph, but their words are swallowed by the din. Down at our goal, Drake bangs his stick on the ice in a long-distance celebration.

I focus on Penn, the playmaker. He could have taken that shot and gotten the glory, but he didn’t. I wonder if it was because he wanted to give it to Stone or if he knew that setting up that amazing play would be bigger news than the practically empty net Stone scored on. It’s hard to say since Penn is an enigma who doesn’t share anything of himself. He’s one hundred percent about the hockey and nothing else.

His intentions aren’t important because he did exactly what he’s paid to do… get pucks past the other team’s goalie. And that goal would not have happened without his assist.

I take it all in, my eyes roaming the arena. This is the essence of hockey. Raw, unscripted drama that unfolds on the ice and spills over into the stands, creating a connection between players and fans. As the cheers continue to echo around me, I’m reminded why I play this game, why I love this sport. It’s moments like these, where the world seems to stand still in celebration, that make every second on the ice worth it.

I let my gaze move to the section of the lower bowl where Mazzy and Bowie Jane are watching. I spared them one look during warm-ups, just enough to smile at my little girl. She waved like a lunatic and then my attention was back on the game.

But right now… I let myself look and not just at my daughter. I take in Mazzy too, wearing a McInnis jersey that matches Bowie Jane’s. I gave it to her this morning as a gift since she’ll be going to many of the home games as my kid’s chaperone. That red hair is hard to miss and my heart nearly stutters to a stop when I see that she and Bowie Jane have their arms wrapped around each other and they’re both jumping up and down, screaming in delight. The joy on my daughter’s face makes my eyes sting. She’s always been my biggest fan and that will never get old.