13. Jamie

Jamie

Wes getstwo tickets to every home game, and I’m the only one who uses them.

They’re awesome seats—on the aisle a couple rows behind the home team bench. In fact, I’m surrounded by other players’ families. The veterans must get more seats or something because there’s a whole section of people who screams whenever Lukoczik touches the puck. And the couple who sits next to me at every game are actually Blake Riley’s parents. And giant Blake is the spitting image of his…mom. She’s big-boned and big-mouthed with floppy hair shot through with gray.

His dad, on the other hand? A skinny professorial type. Genetics. They’re nutty. And if Team Riley thinks it’s weird that I show up alone for every game, they’ve never said so.

I’ve missed the warm-ups and make it to my seats just at the end of the national anthem. I’m quite proficient at “O Canada” these days. Had to learn the lyrics for my juniors team. The coach can’t just stand there and mouth “watermelon watermelon watermelon” like an asshole.

Tonight I have a headache, which is unusual. So I stick the straw into a really overpriced soda I bought on the way in and take a deep drink, hoping that a shot of sugar and caffeine will cure it. I need to feel better, because Wes wants to go out after the game.

I do too, because in the three days he’s been home, I’ve been slacking on my whole communicate-with-your-partner mission. I told Jess I’d talk to Wes, and I almost had the night we sex-Skyped the hell out of each other. But that moment of connection, seeing his gorgeous face peering back at me, so full of lust and longing...I hadn’t wanted to ruin it by bringing our pesky problems into the mix. And then he came home, and all the real-life sex was even better than jerking off to a computer screen. I didn’t want to ruin that either.

Maybe I’m a chicken shit. My sister would definitely agree with that. But things have been good, damn it. Wes and I have been in sync since he got back and I’m too terrified to put us out of rhythm again.

And I can’t lie—a night out with Wes sounds like heaven. When I’d asked him where he wanted to go, he’d replied with, “Doesn’t matter. Out. You and me. We’ll sit at a bar or throw darts or shoot pool.”

“Not pool,” I’d answered. “My fragile ego can’t take that kind of drubbing.”

He’d snickered like a dolphin. “Fine. Whatever you want. The game isn’t the point, anyway. You’re the point.”

I liked the sound of that.

Coach Hal has changed up the lines tonight. He does that sometimes. He has Wes on the second line with Blake and Lukoczik. The starters come out swinging tonight—Eriksson practically mows down the other center after the faceoff. As the puck begins its high-speed chase around the rink, I stop thinking about anything else but the game in front of me. My whole world is reduced to these twelve men jockeying for advantage and the weighty little rubber disk that means the world to the eighteen thousand people here tonight.

Wes vaults over the wall for his shift, and I can’t help but lean forward in my seat. Ottawa got the puck back and is playing it safe, coddling the puck like old ladies out for a walk with a prized show poodle. They can’t score this way, but they can frustrate Wes. His shift is over before he gets a chance to make anything happen.

And so it goes for a while, but I never lose interest. Some of my not-so-subtle family members have asked me if I mind being an NHL spectator instead of a player. I really don’t, though I’m not sure they believe me. But I’ve always watched hockey, even when the seats weren’t this good. And I skate every day, anyway, with some excellent players.

Life is good. Except for this headache.

Things heat up on the ice. Blake gets a break and sets up an attack. He passes to Wes who slips it right back to him the moment he’s open. Blake flips a wrister at the net, and the goalie just barely gets there in time, poking it out of the air awkwardly with the tip of his glove. But that puck is still in play, so both teams converge.

“GET IT BABY SLAP IT SILLY BRING IT HOME TO MAMA BLAKEYYYYYY!” Mrs. Riley is on her feet and yodeling like a maniac.

She’s always loud, but tonight it’s like a knife straight into my brain. Her husband, though, sits beside her with his knees tucked together and hands folded in his lap. To look at him, he might be in church.

There’s a scrum in front of the net which ends when the goalie traps the puck under his glove. No goal.

The game grinds on, scoreless through the first period. I wander around during the intermission, wishing one of the vendors sold ibuprofen. They don’t, though. I buy a pretzel, hoping that a little food will perk me up.

When the second period begins, the speed of play picks up. Wes looks aggressive out there, and he gets several shots on goal, but they’re rebuffed. I’m not worried. If he keeps that up, it will work eventually. Toronto is outshooting Ottawa. Every time we rush the net Mama Riley spews forth with high-decibel encouragements. “EAT EM FOR AN APPETIZER BLAKEY! SHOOT IT AT HIS EVERLOVING WALNUTS!”

I’m deaf now.

Also, the room is swimming a little in a way that rooms really shouldn’t. And when I try to focus on the puck, the glare on the ice burns my retinas.

Eriksson scores deep into the second period, and I am not nearly as excited as usual. In fact, I want to go home. No—I need to. Pulling out my phone, I text Wes. So sorry, babe. Have the worst headache. Going home early. Let’s go out tomorrow? Same plan, one day later.

“RIDE HIM LIKE A DONKEY BLAKEY!” Mrs. Riley is screeching when I get up. I can still hear her all the way to the top of the stands.

The next morningmy alarm goes off at five-thirty. I hit the snooze button and take stock. My body feels like lead, though that may be partly because it’s weighed down by the muscular thigh of a certain Toronto forward who is passed out while half straddling me.

I never heard him come home last night.

Dozing, it seems as though my alarm goes off again much too quickly. But I heave myself out of bed, because it’s a weekday and my boys have a six-thirty practice. These kids play hockey before school, gearing up while the rest of the sixteen-year-old world sleeps. If they can get there on time, then I will, too.

The coffee I buy at the rink forty-five minutes later tastes like water and hits my stomach like battery acid. Really, it must have been a foul batch. My team’s practice goes slowly because I’m in agony. My headache is back, sitting low at the base of my skull this time. And my stomach keeps cramping.

Hell. Dunlop looks extra shaky out there this morning. It’s only a matter of time before Bill Braddock assigns a more senior defensive coach to work with him. And since we’re having a coaches’ meeting right after this practice, all my coworkers are standing around watching my goalie struggle.

Could this day get any worse?

After the kids leave, I survive the ninety-minute meeting by propping my aching head in my palm and forcing myself to stay awake. I’m probably coming down with something, but I don’t excuse myself. Because A) I’m not a wuss and B) if I ignore it, maybe it will go away.

After the meeting I’m supposed to skate again. Two other defensive coaches and I are teaming up to hold a clinic this morning for some of the older players. When I get out on the ice, though, my stomach cramps again. So I leave the ice, put my skate guards on and head for the john.

The next fifteen minutes are very uncomfortable, but finally my bowels stop exploding. I know this is bad. I have to go home, but home seems really far away all of a sudden. While I’m washing my hands, the light in the room goes yellow and the ambient sound goes dim.

That can’t be good.

I take a few steps toward the bathroom door, but it’s not working all that well. Maybe if I just had a little rest for a moment, I could do better.

The floor of the men’s room at a practice rink is the last place in the world a guy should sit down. But hey, it’s convenient. I sink down, my back sliding against the tiles. My ass hits the floor.

“Canning?” Danton staggers to a stop as he enters the bathroom. “Hey. You okay?”

Not so much, no. He asks me that again several times, as if I’m likely to change my answer. I tune him out.

Luckily, the asshole disappears, and I close my eyes and try to regroup.

The silence doesn’t last nearly long enough. Danton is back—I can hear his weaselly voice. But it’s accompanied by Bill’s—our boss. Their voices mesh together, and I’m too tired to listen well.

“You just found him here?”

“Yeah. You think he’s on drugs?”

“Seriously?”

Someone touches me, and I don’t like it.

“He has a fever, Danton. A high one. Stay here with him, I’m getting the emergency contact list. You have a phone?”

“Yeah.”

It gets blissfully quiet for a minute. But then the voices are back. “Says here that we’re dialing...Ryan Wesley? That’s odd.” Bill laughs. “Same name as that killer rookie forward. Call this number—4-1-6…”

I doze.

“You’re not gonna believe this.” Danton’s voice grates on my consciousness. “The number hits the Toronto clubhouse switchboard. Am I really asking them to find Ryan Wesley?”

“That’s what it says on the paper, kid. Must be true.”

My last half-conscious thought is: I’m sorry, Wes.