Page 39 of From Coast to Coast
We push hard, trying to lengthen our lead by more than a point, but nearly two minutes of shift time on the ice leaves us gassed and frustrated. Whatever fire was lit under Edmonton’s ass in the locker room during intermission is burning strong. They’re playing better than us right now, and if they keep it up, they’ll likely end up closing the gap.
It’s not until late in the third that we finally put another shot into the net. I’m sitting at the blue line and trying to keep the puck in our attacking zone. It’s time for a shift change for Rikkens and me but we can’t perform a changewhen we’re holding the offensive zone, so we stick it out. It pays off when Remy comes over the boards and makes a play for the net. His shot is deflected but he is able to corral his own rebound and pass it back to me.
There is a wide-open shooting lane in front of me—a gift from the motherfucking hockey gods. I shoot. The puck rings off the center post inside the net and the horn sounds. I’m not the kind of guy who does a celly but damn if I don’t want to tonight. That was a good fucking goal, and it feels incredible. Particularly when Remy pulls me into a hug and bangs his helmet against mine, whooping in my ear. I laugh—nobody is as enthusiastic about me scoring than Remy. He’s my own personal hype-man.
We win the game but it’s by the skin of our teeth, and the team is exhausted. A few of the guys make half-hearted plans to unwind and grab a beer at the hotel bar, but the majority wave off the offer in favor of their beds. I can feel Remy’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my head as I resolutely look out the window as the bus takes us from the stadium. Beside me, Zolkov is texting and muttering in Russian.
“Gray,” he says, and shoves his phone my way after making a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. Taking his phone, I look down at the article he has pulled up.
South Carolina was playing tonight in Arizona, and though they won in OT, their starting goaltender, Anthony Lawson, left the ice late in the second period and did not return. There is a video posted with the article and I click on it. It shows the Arizona forwards doing a tic-tac-toe maneuver so expertly, by the time one of them takes a shot, Lawson is covering the opposite goal post and there is a wide-open net. He ends up catching it, though, byperforming a spectacular diving save that really should have been impossible. If I’d had an open net like that, I would have thought for sure I was scoring.
Unfortunately, the author of the article—a well-known and respected sports journalist—speculates that this was an injury-inducing save and that’s why Lawson was pulled. South Carolina has been silent so far, but nobody in their right mind would pull a goalie who was on fire like that unless they were hurt. I hand the phone back to Zolkov.
“He is old man,” Z tells me, eyes dark in the dim light of the bus, and face absent of his usual smirk. “He has bad shoulder.”
“He’s not old,” I argue, even though by hockey years, heisold. As much as I hate going up against Lawson when we play them, I still feel a niggle of worry—he’s been a part of that team for so long, I can’t imagine South Carolina without him. “He’s probably okay. They were likely just being careful because of his history with upper-body injuries.”
Zolkov scrunches up his nose in distaste, evidently not buying anything I’m selling.
“He has surgery three times,” he reminds me. I squint at him, trying to judge his expression in the scant light. The worry escalates as I realize Zolkov is upset. He only played with South Carolina for a year and loves to rag on Lawson every time we match up, but I know he considers him a friend.
“Did you text him?” I ask.
“He saysI am fine and will be there to kick your ass next month when we play,” Zolkov reads off in exasperation. I can’t help but smile—it sounds exactly like Lawson. “But he is liar. Trying to be tough hockey guy.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “We’ll know tomorrow, either way.If he’s not dressed out for morning skate, that means they’ll have to make a statement.”
I contemplate texting Troy, but decide against it for the moment. He’s probably worried enough about his friend—I don’t need to be adding to it. I nudge Zolkov.
“I’ll get the inside info from Troy tomorrow, Z.”
“Yes. Nichols will fold under pressure. He will tell you.”
“Christ, Z.” I laugh, digging my elbow a little harder into his ribs before he pushes me away. “I’m not going to waterboard him, I’m going to ask if Lawson is okay.”
Zolkov rolls his eyes, but appears more at ease than he was moments before. When I turn away from him, my gaze locks on Remy a couple rows up and to the left. He’s got his head tipped back, gold hair fanned out and making him easily identifiable. I almost wish he’d turn around, even though I know it’s dangerous to look at him too long in the presence of so many of my teammates. He’s one who turned away the offer of a drink at the bar, and I try not to look too closely at the relief I feel at that.
Jealousy has no place in our relationship. I have no claim on him and letting myself believe otherwise is a bad idea.
It’sthe end of our stretch of away games, and as usual, I’m happy to be home. I love Calgary, regardless of how soured my opinion of my team has become. Walking through the front door of my crooked house and sleeping in my own bed practically make me faint with happiness. Ignoring the chiming of my phone in favor of a hot shower, I soak my airplane-stiff muscles under the spray until my skin prunes.
Still ignoring my phone, I stand in front of the refrigeratorand contemplate just how much work I want to put into dinner. Weighing the value of calories over sleep, I settle on calories and start pulling out the ingredients for the simplest meal I can manage with what I have. The knock at my front door is as unwelcome as it is surprising.Who the hell would come to the door this late?
If I wasn’t so damn tired, I would have the mental fortitude to realize that only two people would be at my door at any time of day. I probably also would be able to guess which one it actually is. As it is, I pull open the door and am pleasantly surprised to see Remy’s crooked smile and messy hair. He holds up a bag of takeout from a local vegan restaurant. Behind him, an Uber pulls slowly away from the curb.
“Hey,” he says. “How do you feel about company?”
I step back to let him inside, pretending as I do that it’s because he came all this way, and not because I think there might be a chance to take his pants off later.
“I was just trying to come up with the enthusiasm to cook,” I admit, trailing after him to the kitchen. He gazes at my feeble attempt and puts down the bag.
“Well, I can’t promise this is anything good, but it was the healthiest option I could find this late in the evening. If anything, we could just say to hell with dinner and get naked instead.”
Laughing, because this matches my own thoughts exactly, I start popping open the to-go containers. Remy steps around me and grabs two forks from the silverware drawer. He comes to a stop unnecessarily close to me, arm brushing along mine. He must have taken a shower once he got home, the same way I did—he smells like coconut.
“Do you have coconut shampoo?” I ask, and then shrug in response to the quizzical eyebrow raise this gets me. “Iswear you always smell like coconut. It’s not just me projecting my image of a California surfer boy, is it?”
“What, like, you think all surfers smell tropical, so your brain is filling in the blanks?” He sounds amused.