Chapter 1
Easton
Forget the mistake. Remember the lesson.
Too bad Coach Simmons doesn’t live by those words.
I’m sitting in my stall in the dressing room taking off my skates.
“For fuck’s sake, you can’t do shit like that!” Coach yells.
Jammer’s face tightens as he yanks on his skate laces. “I take responsibility for it,” he says in a terse tone. “I know it was a mistake. I didn’t even know that rule existed, and I didn’t think I was going to hit his stick.”
Jammer’s stick snapped when he blocked a shot on our net, but when he tossed it down, he hit a Vancouver player’s stick and got a penalty. Vancouver scored on the power play with only a minute and a half left in the game, and that was that.
My body tenses and my insides cramp up seeing how upset Jammer is, but I keep my face impassive (I hope) as Coach reams him out for what happened in the game we just lost. I have to fight back the urge to tell Coach to lay off. Yeah, that wouldn’t go well.
We just played the second night of a back-to-back, and the third game in four nights. We were all tired, but Jammer was finishing a long shift and was probably even more fatigued.
Coach isn’t having it. “You all fucking hung Gunner out to dry!” he roars, naming our goalie. “Being tired isn’t a goddamn excuse for boneheaded mistakes. You guys are supposed to be professionals.”
The atmosphere in the room is thick and uncomfortable. I feel that familiar heat filling my veins, pressure rising inside me. I don’t look at anyone else as I finish undressing, my jaw rigid.
“Jesus Christ,” Coach says. “I’m done. We’ll fix this shit tomorrow.” He kicks a helmet across the floor—actually kicks it!—and storms out.
Then we all lift our heads and let our eyes meet. I exhale slowly, trying to relax my knotted muscles. I rub the nape of my neck and tilt my head back.
We’re not a bad team. That’s not why Coach is yelling at us. It’s because he’s an asshole.
He takes a lot of his anger out on Jammer. And me.
Okay, he takes his anger out on a lot of us, but there are a few of us who are frequent targets. The only one he never browbeats is Bergie, our captain. And Bergie often defends him.
I mean, there’s no question Coach knows his stuff. He’s been around a long time, since his days as Tim the Tank playing for the Flyers.
I head to the shower and let the hot water pound down on me for a few minutes. Losing sucks. All athletes hate losing. Yeah, we made some mistakes tonight, and maybe there are lessons to learn. Gotta think positive.
The atmosphere in the room after a win is so different—music blasting, lots of laughter and chirping. Not tonight. Quiet. Muttered comments.
I dress in the suit I wore to the Apex Center in Midtown Manhattan, home of the New York Bears hockey club. I give my tie a hard yank to tighten the knot, nearly strangling myself. I meet my buddy Cookie’s eyes and nod.
Earlier, we made plans to go out after the game. I don’t feel much like partying, but I can sure as hell use a beer. Or ten.
Jammer, Wendy, and JBo are also joining us. We leave the arena onto Sixth Avenue. It’s a chilly mid-October night, and I pull on my knit beanie and wrap a scarf around my neck.
There are a few autograph hunters hanging around, so we pause to give our fans some attention, forcing smiles and platitudes about the game. These must be die-hard fans, since we lost, which usually earns us a lot of scorn and bitching.
Don’t get me wrong. I love our fans. They’re the reason we’re here. But I’ve been the target of enough hate that I’ve gotten a little cynical.
Then we zigzag a few streets over to the Amber Horse Brewhouse. None of us feel like hitting a loud club or chill gastropub tonight. This place is a hole-in-the-wall, kind of industrial, with a concrete floor, high, dark ceiling, and big frosted windows. The bar is really long. And packed. It’s Thursday night, a popular bar night, so not surprising. We make our way through the crowd—not hard with six-foot-five-inch, 225-pound Cookie leading the way.
Yeah, nobody makes fun of him for that nickname.
There aren’t any empty tables at the back, so we hang around the bar, people shifting to make room for us.
“Well, that sucked,” Wendy says once we all have beers in hand.
“Sucked like a vacuum cleaner,” JBo agrees. He guzzles back half his beer at once.
I do the same.
“Sucks like an elephant,” Cookie says.
I lift an eyebrow. “Elephant?”
“Yeah. An elephant can suck nearly four gallons of water and blow it straight into its mouth.”
“Four gallons.” I make a face and nod. “Okay. Right now I think I could suck about four gallons of this beer.” I lift it.
“Hell yeah.” We all take a moment to drink.
“Can’t wait for practice tomorrow,” I say, leaning an elbow on the bar. Not.
Cookie sighs. “I know. I guess Coach thinks if he makes us miserable enough after a loss, we’ll win every game.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“I know that.”
Wendy and Jammer, two of Coach’s other frequent targets, grimace.
“Fuck,” Jammer says. “I can’t believe that happened with my stick.”
“I know.” I clap a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “Shit happens.”
“And then I get shit on,” he adds bitterly.
I’ve struggled about whether to speak up or not. I’ve tried it, and it only gets me in more trouble. And I get in enough trouble myself.
I know I have issues. I know I get angry way too often. I’m working on it.
“I’ve got ten bucks on another bag skate,” Wendy says bitterly.
“Not taking that bet.” I chug more beer. “We better not drink too much tonight, just in case.”
“I don’t even care if I puke my guts all over the ice,” Wendy says.
“I do.” I grimace. “I’ll blow chunks too if you do that.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Probably half the team will,” Cookie jokes.
“That would be a sight.” I tilt my head. “Actually…”
“No.” Cookie shakes his head. “Don’t go there. I’m frustrated, but not enough to deliberately puke.”