Page 55 of Lawson
Blakely, who I know is out there cheering for me somewhere, not just as a colleague but as a friend.
A friend who occasionally sleeps with me.
“Wolfe!” Kiplin screams as I get hold of the puck. “Get your fucking head in the game!”
“I have the puck!” I holler back, weaving around the Kings’ winger that’s chasing me down.
“Pass it,” my captain demands. “You're too covered!”
I ignore him—something I know I'll pay for later. I'm sure scoring the game-winning goal will soften his anger. I'm on cloud fucking nine, and there'snoway any of these losers are going to catch me.
I glide over the ice like lightning, the weight of the puck against my stick like an extension of my own body as I make my way toward the goal. Sure, I've got wingers and defensemen coming at me left and right, but I dodge them, taking my shot. I skid to a stop after smacking the puck toward the goal, already celebrating the victory dance in my mind, when the crowd erupts, an explosion of cheers as the Kings’ goaltender bats away my shot like it's nothing.
For a split second, I gape in utter shock knowing the massive heat I put on that shot, and hoping his glove hand hurts like hell from making that save.
It's just a second, and then I'm back in action, speeding over the ice in a desperate attempt to remedy the mistake I just made. Not only did I ignore my captain, but Imissedthe fucking shot.
Stokehill is already three steps ahead of me, him and Ritchford working together to steal the puck back from the Kings, who recovered it after my miss.
I'm playing defense now, getting in the middle and mucking up the Kings’ pathway toward Nash, who’s taking it toward the goal at another attempt to score.
I skirt in front of a right wing, watching as Stokehill lines up to take a shot, but at the last second, he sends the puck soaring to Ritchford, who smacks it in, the puck hitting the back of the net and securing our win.
The handful of Bangor fans in the stands are cheering as the timer sounds, indicating the end of the game.
I don't join the celebration that's happening on the ice.
I don't raise my fist or offer high fives, instead shaking my head as I skate off the ice, my raucous team following behind me as we head to the away-team locker room.
I shed half of my gear, resting my elbows on my knees as Coach stands in the middle of the room.
“Good win tonight, Badgers!” he says, smiling as he glances around at all of us. “The Kings are an admirable team, and you held tight despite the fight they put up. There were some slip-ups,” he continues, and I can’t help but feel a sting hit my chest when his eyes meet mine. “But that’s to be expected. Y’all played as a team. I’m proud of each and every one of you. Keep it up!” He nods, high fiving a few of the rookies as he leaves the locker room, leaving the rest of us to get showered.
I'm the last one in the locker room, sitting there going over every move I made in the game, my brow furrowed, wondering how thehellhe'd stopped that shot.
“What's the matter there, Wolfe?” Coach asks me, his voice suddenly snapping me out of my internal turmoil. I thought he’d left, but maybe he’d come back after everyone else had gone. “The team bus leaves in ten minutes, but you’re still in here pouting. You can't celebrate a win unless you scored a goal?”
“No, Coach,” I answer, shaking my head. “That's not it.”
Coach nods like he expected me to say that. He slides his hands into the black and yellow windbreaker he wears, taking a seat next to me on the bench.
“I didn't think so,” he says. “I took a look at your time in Colorado. You're a playmaker through and through. There were times you had nothing but goal assists in the game, and you still took pride in those wins, so what's eating you up now?”
“I don't know,” I say my, eyes finding the floor.
It's a coward answer, and I know it. I’ve warmed up to Coach Hardin over the last three months—in fact, he's probably the best coach I've ever had in my entire hockey career. He's stern but understanding, and he really takes the time to get to know each of us. He somehow makes you feel like the most important player on the team, even though he has too many talented assets to count.
I should explain exactly why I'm sitting here sulking instead of joining my teammates at the hotel bar for a celebration, but I can't.
“Maybe it's the fact that you had a chance for us to score with an assist, but you decided to take the shot yourself. That's not unheard of,” he continues. “And I saw it, it was a good shot. He just blocked you.”
“Captain told me to pass before I took the shot,” I admit. I manage the courage to look at his face, expecting to see nothing but pure disappointment there. Instead, I see a level of understanding that I'm not sure any coach has given me before.
“I was wondering what Kiplin hollered at you,” he says. “And ignoring Kiplin would be enough to make anybody's stomach sour, but you can't let it trip you up. We’re a mostly new team, Wolfe,” he says, glancing around the locker room as if all the players are here instead of out on the team bus. “We’re just learning how to work together for our common goal of winning and being the best. But right now, I'm not worried about the wins. I'm not worried about the scores on the board. I'm more focused on how we work as ateam. Because I know in the end, that's going to take us further than ever before. A good,solidteam,” he continues. “One who works together, not against each other.” He glances at me, a soft smile on his face that’s somewhat familiar, tugging at something at the back of my head I can't quite place.
He gives me a supportive clap on the shoulder. “You can't be a lone wolf, Wolfe,” he says and chuckles at his own play on words. “You're talented as hell,” he continues. “That's why we drafted you first. Nobody is ever going to deny that. But if we really want to make this team into what we hope it will be? Wehaveto be a team. Understand?”
I nod. “Yes, Coach,” I say.