“It’s Jet’s niece.”
“Cool. So, listen …”
I sigh. “I know preseason has been a mess. Don’t need to rub it in.”
“Your man is a distraction.”
“Would you be saying that if I was dating a woman?”
“Fuck yes. The number one reason for losing a Cup is dick distraction. It’s scientific fact.”
I laugh.
“But I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I was going to ask if you wanted to stay back after practice today and try to get out of the funk you’re in. Sometimes, you’ve gotta let go and forget about doing well and just mess around to get out of your head … or, you know, distract yourself from whatever’s distracting you.” He nods toward my phone.
“Thanks, man.”
He claps my back. “See you out there.”
Practice goes about as well as the rest of preseason has.
I struggle. I struggle hard.
The coaches yell at me, and my teammates grumble under their breaths.
“Need to turn it around, Sorensen, or the fans are gonna be screaming for you to ditch your boyfriend,” Pratt says. “Remember when they thought Grant’s girlfriend was a bad luck charm? It was a mess.”
Grant got traded two seasons ago, so I can’t quite remember what happened with that.
“Didn’t he marry her?” I ask.
“Yeah, to show the fans they were wrong and his relationship was serious. Dude got divorced after thirty-five days.”
Figures. “Well, thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure not to marry Jet to prove a point.” If I was going to marry Jet, I’d do it to prove a point to him, not our fans.
Morgan skates up to me. “We still hanging back?”
“Yeah. What’re you going to make me do? Suicides in full gear like Coach?”
“How’s that going to get your mojo back? All that’ll achieve is it’ll make you like me less.”
“That’s true.”
Morgan picks up the puck on the blade of his stick and tosses it in the air a few times. “I was thinking we could have a good ol’ fashion game of shinny.”
A grin takes over my face. “Hell, yes.”
“No checking. No icing. Let’s do this.”
Messing around with Morgan reminds me of Fiji with the guys. It doesn’t feel like work because it’s fun, and I forget what I’m supposed to do, where I’m supposed to be, and how hard I have to skate.
I just fucking play.
“That all you got?” Morgan taunts. It only spurs me on. Which makes him go faster. “Come on, old man.”
I groan. “Not you too. I get enough of that from Jet.”
Morgan changes direction, taking the puck with him. “Then I approve of the kid.”
“You’re not exactly a spring chicken yourself. You’re pushing thirty … old man.”
“Still younger than you,” he sings.
“Asshole,” I hiss but laugh as I do it.
He pulls his stick back, preparing for a slapshot, but I kick it up a notch and get to the puck first.
It lights that fire in me—that need—and my movements become more natural. My skating is smooth, my puck-handling soft, and anyone watching wouldn’t believe for a second that I’m in a slump.
My coach must agree because … “Where the heck has that been, Sorensen?”
Morgan and I pull up short and turn toward the chute where the offensive coach stands.
“I told him he just has to get out of his head,” Morgan says.
“Think you can bring that in two days?” Coach asks.
I fucking hope so. I don’t say that, though. I say what you’re supposed to when your coaches ask something of you.
“Of course, Coach.”
The first game of the official season is an away game against Winnipeg. The pressure to do well after our shitty preseason is the most intense I’ve experienced in my entire career, or at least it feels like it in this moment.
The coaches give their usual pep talks while the team gets riled up.
I’m too nervous to get fired up like the others, which is ridiculous. It’s my fifteenth season playing professional hockey. Nerves happen every now and then, but this is beyond normal butterflies.
This is I may vomit on the ice nervous.
It could be because of the rocky preseason, or maybe it’s something bigger. Maybe, it’s because retirement has always been a future thing to contemplate. Whereas now, I’m ninety percent sure this will be my last first game of the season ever.
The beginning of the end.
Hockey is still my home. It always will be. I’m sure I’ll still attend games, maybe even do workshops for peewee hockey or something.
I thought retiring meant having to say goodbye to the sport, but that’s not true at all.
The more I think about the possibilities, the more I realize there’s so much more I could be doing that doesn’t have me stuck in this tight schedule. Leaving the NHL doesn’t mean leaving hockey.
The nerves get the better of me for the first seven minutes of the game. I make easy mistakes, and it’s the disaster that’s been the past month all over again.