“You smell like you spent the night in a damn bottle.” His hands rested on his hips. “We’re going to fix this shit right now.” He put his whistle to his lips. “Speed drills! Impress me, or you’ll be here all fuckin’ day, Wolkowski.”
I lined up with my head throbbing and my stomach churning. This was not going to end well.
Within a minute, Dan and Andrew were running the drills with me. My support system, the guys who carried me when I couldn’t walk and had been there more times than not. Brothers I didn’t deserve.
As if a mystical wizard about to see the future, Coach slid a trash can onto the ice so I wouldn’t even have to leave the ice when I puked my guts out.
Once released from my torture sentence at the ice arena, the guys dropped me off at home. I went straight to the kitchen and dumped all alcohol down the drain. I may have lost the only thing I needed, but I couldn’t let booze steal anything else away.
I stayed home the following day, trying to get my head on straight, but my brain wasn’t braining. Nope, all it wanted to do was relive every second with Fern. I got in and out of my truck four different times as I fought myself to not go and see her. She’s said her piece. She was done with me.
After tossing, turning, and thinking through all the crap I can’t control at three a.m., game day was here, and I needed to focus. I made my way to the locker room early as the pungent odor of swamp water, old sock funk, and wet dog with a hint of rotting meat hit me. I needed to be with the only family I had. One by one Dan, Novots, Andrew, and Ed appeared, joking and trash talking, and I slowly got into game mode.
The crowd was roaring as we all flew around the ice with precision and speed. I skated up to Andrew as he shot me the puck, and I whipped it to Ed as a player from the opposing team shoved me into the wall and took off.
I went after him, but a second later, another player high-sticked Dan. I flew into him and threw him onto the boards. I got moving, stole the puck, and shot it to Andrew, and he scored. I threw my arms in the air as the team went wild.
Those moments always brought me back to when my mom first took me in as her foster son. My young attitude was almost as crappy as my smart mouth. The first thing she did was sign me up for hockey. Coach Sutton took me under his wing even though I’d end up being the last kid out of the locker room due to the push-ups I owed him because of my disrespect.
I did all I could to get kicked off the team because what eleven-year-old wants to practice and run drills instead of playing video games? We both knew I had skills, the one thing my sperm donor gave me, but I was on a track to no good. From stealing to fights, I was all about it. But the harder I pushed and asked for trouble, the harder Coach Sutton pulled me in.
Off season, he’d show up at my school games, church confirmation, and secretly left new hockey gear on my porch. Of course, I knew it was him. That man, in combination with my foster mom, put me on an entirely different path. They literally plucked me out of the life of a kid with a mother who was an addict and wouldn’t come home or sometimes forget food for me.
As I skated back out, for the final minutes of a tied game, my eyes spun around the arena and knew I was living a dream I didn’t deserve. I had more than I’d ever thought I was worthy of. Except for Fern.
The puck shot in my direction, and I took it down and ended up behind the goalie. In a scuffle, I felt a hockey stick plow into my cheekbone with a pop, and a few good hits to my ribs before I threw off my gloves and got a good one to his jaw. The referee separated us, and I wiped the blood from my face.
As we lined up, Novots hopped out of the box. He gave me a nod, and I knew what was going down. They sent him out because he was the one on the team to settle scores. Before the whistle even blew, he threw off his gloves and took down the fella who got me.
When all was said and done, we won three to two, and the entire arena was celebrating.
I looked up into the crowd of cheering fans. They were everywhere, but there was one person walking up the stairs toward the exit. I’d know her anywhere.
Adrenaline shot through every vein in me because she was there. She was in the building I was in.
The team had started to head off the ice so I dropped my stick, threw off my gloves, and skated to the wall. Once off the ice, I took the stairs two at a time while surprised fans cheered, and I got a slap on the back as I made my way, skates and all, to her.
With her back still toward me, I touched her arm. She turned, and her eyes shot open. “Gabe.”
“Come on.” I took her hand and led her to the top, and we exited into the concession area. My skates clicked, and I rushed her through the crowd, all of whom were well aware I was there. A few turns later, I took her down a hall nobody but the players and staff had access to.
I turned to her, and those heart-stopping eyes hit me somewhere in the chest. She was there. I was touching her hand, and she hadn’t thrown any punches; it was a good sign.
“Gabe, I?—”
“No, don’t say anything right now.” I led her to a bench against the wall. “Will you stay here while I change?”
She nodded, but I couldn’t read her face. Her smile was missing, and I couldn’t decide what her eyes were saying.
“Promise? You’ll stay right here?”
She inhaled deeply and nodded again.
“Okay, I’ll be back soon. Just stay here.”
She sat on the bench and gave me a third nod.
I spun around and headed down the hall. When I looked over my shoulder, she was watching me. Maybe I was mistaken, but I thought I saw the smallest of smiles.
