The air fucking buzzes. We’ve got a Canadian team to cheer for—Toronto—and if they win, it’ll be the first time in three decades that we’ve brought the cup home to Canada. Creates some hockey drama, let me tell you. When it comes time for the national anthem to play, there isn’t an empty corner in the place.
There’s an eruption of chaotic wood sliding against wood as we all stand for the anthem. We put arms around each other—friends and strangers who are our friends for the next three periods—and belt O Canada at the top of our lungs.
As if we weren’t excited enough. With our national anthem pumping through us, the crowd roars, momentum builds, and the puck hasn’t even dropped yet.
I have enough time to chug a beer between the singing of the American national anthem and the first faceoff of the night.
Rhett takes center ice. Dark hair curls out from under the bottom of his helmet. His solid jaw is set and his cleft chin seems more pronounced under his helmet strap. I’m hit with the essence of him like I always am, and my stomach does somersaults. Love him or hate him, no one can deny wanting to watch him play.
Most rookies don’t see anything other than the ice from the bench their first season, but here Rhett is on the first line, dead center. I can’t wait to see him score a goal.
I feel the eyes on me, so I look up and flip my nosey teammates the bird. “Fuck you, Chalmers.”
“Why you singling me out, Leslie? He was looking too.” He pushes Stevie’s shoulder.
“Felt like it.” I smirk and wink and enjoy the sultry reaction I get from him. Chances are that he, like the rest of us, rented a hotel room for the night and will be heading back to Vancouver in the morning. Maybe I end up in that hotel room.
My reaction works. No one cares about me and Rhett after that. We’re all too enthralled with the battle on the ice. We cheer and celebrate together when our team scores. We hold our breath when Rhett’s on a breakaway, duking it out with our goalie. We yell at the refs together when they make calls we deem bullshit and applaud them when they call in our favor.
It’s a heart-stopping roller coaster ride into the third period.
Rhett wins the puck drop in the third. “He’s determined,” I say. I know what determination looks like on him. He’s going to win this. Pride swirls like a tornado inside my belly.
Dirk’s hand reaches for my thigh, and he leans in so that I can hear him clearly despite the ever-growing crowd. More have joined the restaurant bar. I’m no fireman, but I can say that we’re definitely over code. No one’s sending anyone away. This is our night to come together as Canadians, for the thing that always unites us. Hockey.
The stragglers could watch it at home on their own TVs, but it’s not the same without the energy of the crowd. And we want them here, joined in beer and hockey camaraderie.
“Do you miss him, Jack?” Dirk says.
“Every … every day.” It aches to have so much pride in someone you want to call yours; to love them and know you can never be with them.
I take a gander around and sip on the uplifting spirits surrounding me.
Dirk’s also one of two “Team Rhett” fans in our hockey fam. The other awkward thing about our breakup was dividing our mutual friends. The Alderchuck brothers placed themselves firmly in the Leslie division even though it wasn’t necessary. I didn’t expect anyone to pick sides. In fact, I hoped they wouldn’t because I didn’t want to lose a single one of them.
Proximity is power though and Rhett’s been gone. The five of us have become even closer this season while he’s drifted away from everyone. I know that Dirk and Dash exchange texts with him now and then, but it’s not the same as in-person contact.
Casey never loved Rhett; he tolerated him for me. Rhett is best friends with his arch-nemesis, Mitch Sutter, who plays for our rival team in Boston. Mitch is a Vancouver boy originally, and he went to high school with Rhett. They went to St. Georges, a fancy private school, while the Alderchucks and I went to Point Grey, but we were aware of each other’s existence with all of us being in the hockey world.
“I am okay, Dirk-y, but I’m never falling in love again. I’m barely surviving this. Fuck the better to have loved and lost mantra. I’m just gonna keep getting under hot men, playing hockey, and listening to Metallica.”
Sounds like a fucking fantastic life. Metallica’s the fucking best.
Dirk doesn’t think so. I can tell by his judge-y Mcjudgerson face. “Yeah right, Jack.” He laughs, drinking his beer and I don’t argue. I’d rather turn my attention to this blood bath that’s trying to pass for a hockey game and send a text to Chalmers to tell him that I’ll be in his hotel bed tonight.
* * *
Incessant ringing wakes us all at what has to be God’s hour. A cacophony of “someone turn that the fuck off” sounds across the small hotel room and I’m extra pissed when I find out that it’s my phone.
“Who the fuck is calling me at …” I check the time. “Oh shit, it’s noon, guys.” It’s a six-hour drive back to Vancouver. We’re not really in a rush. We’re all gonna be nursing the world’s worst hangovers.
I crawled in here at somewhere close to four am from Chalmers’s hotel room, got naked, and slithered my body in between Casey and Dash.
It’s a call from Bender, my agent. Shit. This can’t be good. My nerves light on fire as the room spins from getting up too fast. Fuck. Please don’t tell me I’m traded or fuck, kicked outta hockey. Bad things come in threes. We didn’t make the Calder Cup run, Toronto lost to New York last night, which was two, and then I counted the late-night burrito that gave me indigestion as three. That should be a wrap on bad things. This’ll be good news, right?
My gut’s telling me to hang onto something.
“What the fuck, Bender?”
