Page 104 of Center Ice
“Never been better.” And it’s true, which is why it’s hard to rationalize the pit in my stomach.
We’re sixteen minutes into the first period when I score my first goal, and four minutes into the second period when I score my second. We’re leading 4-1 and the guys are insisting tonight’s the night for me to score a third goal.
“Last time you played against us,” McCabe reminds me, “you scored a hat trick. Colt’s never forgotten that. The least you can do is to do it again, this timeforus.”
“No pressure,” Walsh says, his eyes focused on the ice, waiting for our line change.
When it comes, we absolutely explode onto the ice, and I skate hard and fast toward Washington’s net, where one of their defensemen currently has the puck behind the goal. He sends it along the boards, trying to get it to the left winger, and I reach for it with my stick, managing to bat it over to Walsh, but crashing shoulder first into the boards. It hurts like a motherfucker, but I shake it off, jumping to my feet and advancing toward their net.
I don’t even have the puck when one of Washington’s defenders pushes me for absolutely no reason. I try to channel Zach’s inner calm as the asshole follows me, talking shit about how I won’t score again. And when I turn to receive the puck from McCabe, who sends it across the ice in front of the goal, the asshole from Washington checks me.
Before I even have time to pick myself up, the refs blow the whistle and give him some time in the penalty box for roughing. I force myself to shake it off, knowing that not responding was exactly what AJ wanted, but the booing from the crowd lets me know they were hoping for a different response.
They’re not paying your salary or signing your next contract, I remind myself.
I line up to take the face-off, determined to win it and make this power play count. A third goal before the end of this period will feel so much better than punching that asshole in the face.
But at the end of the two minutes, we haven’t scored, though we’re still up by three, and I should feel good about that. The allure of a hat trick, and getting it done in front of my son, hangs heavy in front of me as I sit the bench, taking a drink of water before our next line change.
There’s such a thing as focusing too hard on a single outcome, and I know I’m straddling that line. Being determined to be the one to score, rather than being determined to pass to the player in the best position to score, has resulted in many a hockey player losing an important shot for their team.
I don’t want to be that person. But man, do I want that hat trick.
My chance comes as I’m taking the puck across the blue line into the attacking zone, but one of Washington’s defenders is advancing too quickly, and Walsh is open, so I pass the puck to him and start to skate past the defender. We’ve practiced this move a hundred times, where Walsh passes to McCabe, who then saucers the puck all the way across the ice to me instead, and as I surge forward to get in place to receive it, another Washington player comes out of nowhere and hits me from behind. The hit sends me sliding across the ice, right into the goalpost, knocking the net off its moorings.
I don’t even stop to think, I just throw my gloves down as I jump up and come face-to-face with Henry Levine. We played together in college, and we’ve faced off against each other several times tonight. And I can tell by the look on his face that he didn’t mean to hit me like that, but in my enraged state, it doesn’t matter because hedidhit me. I advance on him as he throws his gloves to the ice, and when I take my first swing, he blocks it with his shoulder pads and hits me right in the side where I’m unprotected. The pain flares through my rib, and I swing my other arm up and get his jaw with an undercut. His head snaps back, but he stays on his feet, and in that moment where we lock eyes but don’t move, the refs move in and grab each of us.
And as I take my seat in the penalty box, I look across the ice for Audrey and Graham. Her head is bent, talking to him where he stands on his seat, so I can’t sense if she’s upset about the fight. It’s part of hockey, but she knows about AJ’s warning last week, and I’m sure she’s not happy I just lost control of my emotions like that. Standing next to her, Jameson is shaking his head. He knows I just fucked up, but neither of us knows how bad.
Islide my arms into my suit coat and grab my phone from where it sits on the shelf of my locker. All I want at this moment is to go see Audrey. To forget about the penalty, the way my coach looked at me when I got back to the bench, and the way AJ was waiting for me at the door to the locker room at the end of the game to read me the fucking riot act. The shine was taken right off the hat trick I managed with my goal in the third period, and our team’s seventh win of the season, because now all I can think about is that none of the good stuff matters if I don’t geta handle on my “impulse control issues,” as AJ called them. It’s the same term Audrey used, which makes me wonder if there’s some truth to it.
“AJ’s pissed?” Zach asks from beside me before I even have a chance to unlock my phone.
“You think?” I’m pretty sure everyone inside the locker room knew exactly what happened outside that door, because the minute I walked in, the whole celebration came to a screeching halt. Finally, Colt screamed, “A fucking hat trick, man!” and my teammates pulled me into the center of their celebration. “She says I have ‘impulse control issues.’”
“You ever talk to anyone about that?”
“Anyone like…a shrink or something?”
“Or like a sports psychologist?”
“Is that why you’re so calm all the time?”
“No.” Zach huffs out a laugh. “I’m calm because I’ve spent significant time and attention working on my capacity to keep my emotions in check. I meditate every day. I have strategies in place for dealing with my shit before it gets the better of me.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that the first time I ever got in a fight on the ice, I ended some kid’s hockey career. We were thirteen. I’ve spent my whole life working to be better than I was in that moment.”
“Was it your fault?”
“It was shit luck that he fell the way he did, but it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t punched him. It took two years before I could find a coach willing to have me on their team. I almost missed my shot at going pro because of a stupid, impulsive decision.” Zach runs his hands through that sandy blonde hair, his square jaw set firmly. “I had to learn to be smarter than my emotions.”
“That’s why you never fight?”
“Part of it, yeah.”
“What’s the other part?” I ask as I gather the last of my stuff together out of my locker.
