I hurry after him, and my stomach does another queasy flip. This time it’s because I was a gluttonous pig and stuffed myself at dinner, so speedwalking isn’t good for my current state. Too many grasshoppers swimming around in my belly.
To my utter confusion, the guard deposits me at a small office near the visitors’ locker room. When I enter, I find myself looking at Bern Gerlach, the head coach of San Jose. Two other men are also present, but I don’t recognize them.
“Mr. Canning,” Gerlach says, extending a hand. “Bern Gerlach.”
“Um, right. Nice to meet you, sir.”
He introduces the men beside him as an assistant at the GM’s office, and a rep from the league.
“I’m going to cut to the chase because the puck drops in ten minutes,” he says in a no-nonsense tone. “Our goalie’s out and we’re starting his back-up. You’re on the NHL list of emergency goalies—can you suit up for us tonight as Pitti’s back-up?”
I stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
He repeats the request—and yup, it sounds as ludicrous the second time around. I am on the emergency back-up list for the league, but nobody actually ever gets called. Emergency goalies are mythical creatures. Every now and then you hear stories about an accountant who got called up to play one period for New York, or a plumber who suddenly found himself filling in for an injured LA goalie. But those are practically fables, rare situations that allow an everyday Joe to live out his professional athlete dreams.
“Canning?” the head coach prompts. “Can you suit up?”
I snap out of my amazement. “Yes,” I find myself blurting, because who would ever say no? “But don’t you have someone local who can fill in?” Shut up, Jamie. “Like someone from your farm team here?” Seriously, dude, shut up. Don’t give away this wonderful gift.
The GM’s assistant answers in a grim tone. “Our minor league team is on the way back from a game in Bakersfield. The team bus is currently sitting in deadlock traffic on 101. There was a huge pile-up about an hour ago.”
“He won’t make it here in time,” the head coach says flatly. “You’re our best option at the moment. Are you good to go?”
“I’m good to go, sir.”
“Great.” He nods toward the league rep. “Thompson just needs your John Hancock on this waiver, and then I’ll take you to the locker room.”
I’m wearing the opponent’s jersey. Fuck. Wes is going to kill me.
These are my thoughts as a trainer hustles me down the chute, past the security, and onto the home bench.
None of the San Jose players really glance my way as I sit on the end in the backup goalie’s traditional spot. The league requires that teams dress two goalies for a game, but the chances of me actually playing are slim to none.
The arena is alive with excitement as the two teams get into position. Wes is on the first line, taking the faceoff. I’m dying to stand up and wave at him like a total idiot. Or anyone on Toronto, for that matter. This is like winning the lottery and not being able to share a single dime with the people you love. I want them to get as big of a kick out of this development as I’m getting.
But my husband and his teammates are laser-focused on the game, as they should be. Almost immediately after the faceoff, Pitti is under attack. Toronto takes advantage of the absence of San Jose’s starting goalie.
Pitti is good, though. For eleven minutes, he stops every shot that careens toward him, at one point making a diving save that sends my heart lurching to my throat. I’m not even playing and yet the adrenaline in my blood is high. And the churning of my stomach is even worse now. Nerves and a hundred servings of Mexican food don’t go well together.
But Pitti’s luck runs out when Matt Eriksson unleashes a slapshot that flies into the net, top right corner. Toronto is leading us 1-0—and how cute is it that I’m now referring to it as “us.” I’m not actually a San Jose player. I’m a benchwarmer who’s not going to see a second of ice time because Pitti is killing it.
My job is to sit here, occasionally opening the bench door to accommodate a quick line change. There are backup goalies who spend ninety percent of their time sitting here, opening and shutting this door. And people wonder why I skipped the minors to become a coach.
It’s hella fun for one night, though. And I’ve never had better seats for one of Wes’s games.
When the first period comes to an end, I once again try to catch the attention of anyone from Toronto, but those bastards are all arrogantly skating off toward the tunnel without a backward look. With a lead of 3-1, they have a right to feel cocky.
I trudge back into the locker room with the San Jose game for the intermission. My clothes are still there, on the bench. Just to be an asshole, I dig out my phone, remove my borrowed helmet and snap a selfie in the teal jersey. I text it to Wes. He won’t see it until after the game, but this is a moment that needs to be memorialized.
“Hey, pretty boy,” a player taunts. “Maybe save the photo shoots for after the game?”
“Cut him some slack, bro,” someone argues. “This is a big deal for the dude.”
“Sure is.” I glance over gratefully at the player who’d sided with me.
“Where you from?” the player asks. He’s a rookie D-man.
“Grew up in Marin County, but I live in Toronto now. I coach juniors hockey.”
“Cool!” His face brightens. “Toronto, huh? Kinda funny that you got called in for this game.”
“Um…” It’s so much funnier than he even knows.
“Hey, no fucking way,” a voice snaps. I look up into the snarling face of Nik Sokolav, San Jose’s star forward. He must follow the sports gossip sites because he obviously recognizes me. “This guy can’t be our backup! Coach! What the fuck?” He stands up, pointing at me. “He’s sleeping with the fucking enemy! If he ends up having to go in, he’ll hand the game to Ryan fucking Wesley.”
Now everyone is staring. Awesome.
“Look,” I chirp before Gerlach can answer. “Nothing makes me happier than kicking the hubby’s ass. We used to have one-on-one competitions when we were kids and I won my fair share of them. I know how to stop the asshole.”
There are some nervous chuckles in the room.
“Leave the man alone,” Gerlach grunts. “Put the puck into the net tonight, Sokolav, and then it won’t matter who’s in the net.”
And then? That fucker does.
He scores back-to-back goals during the second period, tying the game. From the bench, I don’t miss the tight set of Wes’s jaw as he flops onto the bench after his shift. He’s pissed. He doesn’t like losing. But Toronto turns it around at the end of the second, taking the lead again courtesy of a bullet from Blake Riley.
The buzzer sounds and once again I leave the ice with “my” team, unable to signal to a solitary Toronto player. I do shout out, “Yo, Wesley!” at my husband’s retreating back, which gets me a deep scowl from Sokolav. Besides, my yell is drowned out by the thousands of other yells reverberating through the arena. I guess my short stint as a professional hockey player isn’t destined to be witnessed, but the story’ll be just as good when I tell it to Wes and the guys after the game.