Tomorrow I'd fly to Rockford and pretend I belonged in a locker room full of guys who'd never heard of Thunder Bay, let alone cared about its scrappy minor league team. I'd tape my stick the same way I always did and try not to think about Hog's banana bread, Pickle's terrible jokes, or how Evan looked when he said I deserved this.
I'd dreamed of leaving a place like Thunder Bay my entire life. I'd head to bigger cities, better teams, more money, and more recognition—everything that was supposed to matter when you measured a hockey career.
But lying there in the dark, listening to the apartment breathe around me, all I could think about was the sound of Evan's voice when he'd said "You'll crush it" like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.
I used to dream about leaving a place like this. Now, I wasn't sure I'd know how to come back.
Chapter eighteen
Evan
The whiteboard marker squeaked against the surface like fingernails on a chalkboard, but I kept writing anyway.
Carter-Murphy. Carter-Kowalczyk. Carter-literally anyone who wouldn't leave me hanging out to dry during a two-on-one.
I erased Murphy's name for the third time and tried Kowalczyk again, even though he'd been about as reliable as a leaky teapot during Tuesday's practice. The marker left streaky blue residue no matter how hard I pressed, and my handwriting—usually precise enough to make penmanship teachers weep with joy—looked like I'd been taking notes during an earthquake.
"Spreadsheet, you're gonna wear a hole in that board."
Hog's voice carried across the empty locker room. Practice didn't start for another twenty minutes, but I'd been at the Barn since seven, playing chess with myself against the lines and losing.
I responded to Hog but didn't turn around. "Working out some kinks in the system."
"Kinks." Hog snorted. "That's what we're calling it?"
The truth was uglier than kinks—three straight losses since Jake left. Kids learning hockey from motivational quotes on the back of a cereal box would have played better than we did.
"You know what the problem is?" Hog settled onto the bench behind me.
I didn't answer, but that had never stopped Hog from dispensing wisdom like a hockey-playing Buddha.
"We're playing scared. Tight. Like we're waiting for something bad to happen instead of making something good happen." He paused, and I heard the familiar rustle of him digging through his bag. "Kid had a gift for making people believe they could pull off the impossible."
Jake. He meant Jake, but neither of us would say his name. That would make it real and make it hurt in a way that acknowledging the obvious always did.
"He's been gone through three games," I said. "We should be adjusting by now."
"Should be, but should-be and reality play in different leagues, don't they?"
It was time for a walk, and I decided to circle the arena and take a few deep breaths. I tried to think about my career future instead of—but I couldn't.
When I returned to the locker room, someone had erased my scribbling on the whiteboard. Someone—probably Hog—had written a single line in block letters: "STORM 4 LYFE."
It was stupid. Sentimental. It would've made me roll my eyes a month ago.
I picked up the marker and added underneath: "Let's fucking go."
Pickle whooped from across the room. "That's what I'm talking about! Poetry in motion!"
Two days later, we were on the road, and the Sudbury arena smelled like stale popcorn, perfect for the trajectory of our game.
We were down two goals midway through the second period. I picked up the puck behind our net, scanning for options. Kowalczyk was covered. Murphy was nowhere useful. Pickle was flying down the left wing, but I'd need to thread the pass through traffic.
The Sudbury forward—some meat-head named Kellner, a bruiser big enough to bench-press school buses for fun—bore down on me with a predatory focus that meant trouble.
I faked left, went right, and threaded a pass up the boards that somehow found Pickle's stick. Clean. Simple. The kind of play that didn't make highlight reels but kept the game moving.
Kellner didn't get the memo about the play being over.
