Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Charlie and my nephew Anderson play youth hockey. When I’m retired, I can be at every one of their games, and I can even help coach. Retiring will be hard, but I’m ready to be there for my family all the time. No more missed birthdays or school events. No more grueling travel schedule.
But also, no more of this. Many of my current and former teammates are like brothers to me. Their families are like my family. I’ll miss playing hockey, but more than that, I’ll miss my team.
“We’re not setting the pace out there, boys,” Coach says as he paces in front of his whiteboard. “This is your time. It’s your game, but you have to go out there and take it. Stop letting them dictate the pace.”
One of the training interns passes me ice for my knee. They don’t even ask if I want it anymore. I ice before, during and after games. After a home game in the first round of the playoffs, my knee hurt so much by the end of the game that Ford and Rowan had to help me get in and out of an ice bath.
Colby’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands as Coach talks. I nudge him and he glances up at me.
“You okay?”
He nods. “I just want to put those fuckers away so bad, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Focus, focus, focus,” Coach yells, drawing circles around the word he wrote on the whiteboard, which is, not surprisingly, focus. “Do your job. This is just another game. We play games all the time. Get your asses out there and do your jobs, that’s all I ask.”
Ford looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s also probably playing in his last game, but none of us are talking about it. We’re a bunch of broken-down nervous wrecks, every one of us sporting a scraggy playoff beard.
I put my leg up on the bench and set the ice pack on my knee, closing my eyes. I only get a couple more minutes before we have to head back out.
When we return to our bench, I’m mentally reset. Ready to leave everything out on the ice.
Boston scores thirty-six seconds into the second period. Our fans boo so loudly I can feel it.
When I’m on my next shift, I glance up at the row my family’s in. Everyone’s on their feet. Shelby’s holding Jack and Sierra at the same time, a kid on each hip.
I’m a lucky man. My kids couldn’t have a better mom, and Shelby and I are still very much in love.
I return my focus to the game, my knee throbbing with pain. I set it aside in my mind, thinking only about passing and shooting.
Ford fires a shot at the net and it bounces off of the Boston goalie’s skate. I catch the puck with my stick and shoot it straight into the net.
The crowd goes wild and my teammates surround me. I haven’t scored in back-to-back games since the very beginning of the season. It means everything to come through in a moment like this.
Boston’s worried. They get more aggressive, their defensemen all over me and Ford. One of our rookies, Tony Shepherd, scores on a power play.
When we surround him, Tony’s smile reminds me so damn much of myself when I was his age. Young and full of fire. He’ll never forget this moment.
As soon as play resumes, Trevor Morris is blatantly high-sticking and hits Ford, drawing a lot of blood from his nose. Ford has to go to the locker room for treatment.
Morris gets a double minor and we make the most of it. Ben scores on the power play and then Colby does, too.
We’re up 4–2 at the second intermission, but the mood in the locker room is still subdued.
“You good?” I ask Ford, who’s holding a towel beneath his nose.
He gives me a thumbs-up. Coach drills into us all the stuff we already know but probably need to listen to anyway.
Icing my knee doesn’t help much, but I pop some ibuprofen and ignore the pain. When we go back to our bench, I pay close attention to everything. The feel of the bench as I sit down. The smell of popcorn in the air.
It’s probably the last time I’ll do this. My final period as a pro hockey player. I want to remember every detail.
I do my shifts, but as the clock counts down, I have a surreal sense of being outside my body. The dream is so close. To go out on top would be everything.
Sergei wants to lay Trevor Morris out flat so fucking bad, but he knows better than to risk the penalty at such a critical moment in the game. He’ll remember, though. It’ll be next season, but Morris will get paid back for his hit on our team captain.