We’re crowded together in the hallway outside the locker room, waiting to take the walk to the ice. I’m absorbing the sound of the music and the cheering crowd when Zach nudges my shoulder. “I forgot to ask you after our home opener how it feels to play in your hometown.”
“It’s pretty fucking amazing, actually,” I say, thinking about how tonight my whole family is here, and so is Audrey’s. It feels a million times better than playing for a faceless crowd in another city.
“Is she here?”
I assume he means Audrey. “Yeah. Every game.”
“And your kid?”
“He’s here too. She usually takes him home after the second period so she can get him in bed.”
“Is that where you rush off to after every home game?” he asks.
I nod, thinking about how I already can’t wait to see her later tonight. I want to add her to the Wives List, and I want her and Graham waiting for me in the Family Room at the end of the game—provided he can stay up that late—but I have to talk to her and see if she’s ready for that.
“Sweet.”
If I didn’t know Zach as well as I do, I’d think the guy must be a stoner or something. He’s so Zen about everything, on and off the ice. I take a deep breath, trying to channel some of his calm, because for some reason, I’m really keyed up today. We’re 6-1-1 so far this season, so we’re off to a good start. I’m playing well. My coach is happy with me, and I haven’t been in the sin bin once since that talk with AJ, so I assume she’s happy too. But there’s something there, some current of electricity right under my skin, making me feel almost jumpy.
“You good?” Zach asks, watching me carefully.
“Yeah. Just taking it all in.”
“You sure?”
“I’m fine.” The words come out with more of an edge than I’d intended. What the fuck is wrong with me? I take a breath, and say more convincingly, “Really.”
We make the walk down the hallway, each of us reaching out and touching the Rebels logo painted on the wall. The music and the sound of the crowd are practically deafening as we approach the rink, and I let the energy settle into my bones. At least one goal, and no penalties. That’s my job tonight.
I take to the ice, letting my skates glide across the smooth surface while the lights and music flash around me. And as we line up for the national anthem, I glance over to where I know Audrey’s standing, and my breath is absolutely stolen from my lungs.
She’s wearing my jersey.
She’s got my last name on her back.
And as she looks down at me, an enormous smile plastered across her beautiful face, I know she’s mine. I have to make it work in Boston. I need to be able to stay and play here. There’s no way I’m uprooting her and Graham, taking her away from the company she started with her sister, or taking Graham away from the small, private elementary school he’s so happy at. It has to be Boston or nowhere.
A small knot of anxiety winds itself around my stomach as I stand there with my helmet in one hand and the other over my heart, listening to the national anthem with my eyes locked on Audrey.
“You sure you’re okay, man?” Zach asks when the music stops and the lights come up.
“Never been better.” And it’s true, which is why it’s hard to rationalize the pit in my stomach.
We’re sixteen minutes into the first period when I score my first goal, and four minutes into the second period when I score my second. We’re leading 4-1 and the guys are insisting tonight’s the night for me to score a third goal.
“Last time you played against us,” McCabe reminds me, “you scored a hat trick. Colt’s never forgotten that. The least you can do is to do it again, this time for us.”
“No pressure,” Walsh says, his eyes focused on the ice, waiting for our line change.
When it comes, we absolutely explode onto the ice, and I skate hard and fast toward Washington’s net, where one of their defensemen currently has the puck behind the goal. He sends it along the boards, trying to get it to the left winger, and I reach for it with my stick, managing to bat it over to Walsh, but crashing shoulder first into the boards. It hurts like a motherfucker, but I shake it off, jumping to my feet and advancing toward their net.
I don’t even have the puck when one of Washington’s defenders pushes me for absolutely no reason. I try to channel Zach’s inner calm as the asshole follows me, talking shit about how I won’t score again. And when I turn to receive the puck from McCabe, who sends it across the ice in front of the goal, the asshole from Washington checks me.
Before I even have time to pick myself up, the refs blow the whistle and give him some time in the penalty box for roughing. I force myself to shake it off, knowing that not responding was exactly what AJ wanted, but the booing from the crowd lets me know they were hoping for a different response.
They’re not paying your salary or signing your next contract, I remind myself.
I line up to take the face-off, determined to win it and make this power play count. A third goal before the end of this period will feel so much better than punching that asshole in the face.
But at the end of the two minutes, we haven’t scored, though we’re still up by three, and I should feel good about that. The allure of a hat trick, and getting it done in front of my son, hangs heavy in front of me as I sit the bench, taking a drink of water before our next line change.
There’s such a thing as focusing too hard on a single outcome, and I know I’m straddling that line. Being determined to be the one to score, rather than being determined to pass to the player in the best position to score, has resulted in many a hockey player losing an important shot for their team.
I don’t want to be that person. But man, do I want that hat trick.
My chance comes as I’m taking the puck across the blue line into the attacking zone, but one of Washington’s defenders is advancing too quickly, and Walsh is open, so I pass the puck to him and start to skate past the defender. We’ve practiced this move a hundred times, where Walsh passes to McCabe, who then saucers the puck all the way across the ice to me instead, and as I surge forward to get in place to receive it, another Washington player comes out of nowhere and hits me from behind. The hit sends me sliding across the ice, right into the goalpost, knocking the net off its moorings.
I don’t even stop to think, I just throw my gloves down as I jump up and come face-to-face with Henry Levine. We played together in college, and we’ve faced off against each other several times tonight. And I can tell by the look on his face that he didn’t mean to hit me like that, but in my enraged state, it doesn’t matter because he did hit me. I advance on him as he throws his gloves to the ice, and when I take my first swing, he blocks it with his shoulder pads and hits me right in the side where I’m unprotected. The pain flares through my rib, and I swing my other arm up and get his jaw with an undercut. His head snaps back, but he stays on his feet, and in that moment where we lock eyes but don’t move, the refs move in and grab each of us.
And as I take my seat in the penalty box, I look across the ice for Audrey and Graham. Her head is bent, talking to him where he stands on his seat, so I can’t sense if she’s upset about the fight. It’s part of hockey, but she knows about AJ’s warning last week, and I’m sure she’s not happy I just lost control of my emotions like that. Standing next to her, Jameson is shaking his head. He knows I just fucked up, but neither of us knows how bad.
I slide my arms into my suit coat and grab my phone from where it sits on the shelf of my locker. All I want at this moment is to go see Audrey. To forget about the penalty, the way my coach looked at me when I got back to the bench, and the way AJ was waiting for me at the door to the locker room at the end of the game to read me the fucking riot act. The shine was taken right off the hat trick I managed with my goal in the third period, and our team’s seventh win of the season, because now all I can think about is that none of the good stuff matters if I don’t get a handle on my “impulse control issues,” as AJ called them. It’s the same term Audrey used, which makes me wonder if there’s some truth to it.
“AJ’s pissed?” Zach asks from beside me before I even have a chance to unlock my phone.
“You think?” I’m pretty sure everyone inside the locker room knew exactly what happened outside that door, because the minute I walked in, the whole celebration came to a screeching halt. Finally, Colt screamed, “A fucking hat trick, man!” and my teammates pulled me into the center of their celebration. “She says I have ‘impulse control issues.’”
“You ever talk to anyone about that?”
“Anyone like…a shrink or something?”
“Or like a sports psychologist?”
“Is that why you’re so calm all the time?”
“No.” Zach huffs out a laugh. “I’m calm because I’ve spent significant time and attention working on my capacity to keep my emotions in check. I meditate every day. I have strategies in place for dealing with my shit before it gets the better of me.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that the first time I ever got in a fight on the ice, I ended some kid’s hockey career. We were thirteen. I’ve spent my whole life working to be better than I was in that moment.”
“Was it your fault?”
“It was shit luck that he fell the way he did, but it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t punched him. It took two years before I could find a coach willing to have me on their team. I almost missed my shot at going pro because of a stupid, impulsive decision.” Zach runs his hands through that sandy blonde hair, his square jaw set firmly. “I had to learn to be smarter than my emotions.”
“That’s why you never fight?”
“Part of it, yeah.”
“What’s the other part?” I ask as I gather the last of my stuff together out of my locker.
“That part won’t help you.” Zach just shakes his head. The guy is kind of mysterious—quiet and observant, and it makes me wonder if any of us really knows him. “If you want to focus on getting control of your emotions, I know a great therapist. I video call with her twice a week. I’m sure she’d talk to you if you want.”
I nod, willing to give it a try. “Alright, send me her info. I gotta get going.”
I hold my phone up to unlock it as I leave the locker room, but the screen is taken over with Caitlyn’s name and an incoming call. As much as she’s not the person I want to talk to right now, she never calls unless something’s wrong.
“What’s up?” I answer.
“Drew, Mom fell leaving the game. She was really disoriented, and they ended up taking her to the hospital via ambulance to have her checked out.”
“What?” The word rips out of me so loudly that the friends and family members lingering in the hallway turn to stare. “Is she okay?”
“I think so, but we’re waiting to see the doctor. It…would be great if you could come by. She’ll want to see you.”
“Of course I’m coming.” She gives me the details as I rush out to my Jeep, thankful that it’s a home game and I can get to her quickly, but then realizing that if it wasn’t a home game, this wouldn’t have happened. She’d have watched the game from the safety of her couch.
That guilt nags at me for the twenty minutes it takes me to get to the hospital and park, and when I find my sisters, they’re sitting side by side in the ER room. It feels so empty without the bed.
“What’s going on? Where’s Mom?”
“They just took her for a CT scan,” Caitlyn says. “Since she was disoriented after hitting her head, they want to make sure she doesn’t have any swelling or bleeding in her brain.”
“It was probably just the Parkinson’s making her disoriented,” Missy tries to reassure us. And she might be right—being disoriented because of the Parkinson’s could be what caused the fall. Or being disoriented could be a result of the fall. And we won’t know until the doctor reviews the images and comes to talk to us.
“It might be a while,” Caitlyn tells me. “They have to put an IV in so they can inject the contrast, and normally they’d do it here. But she was really agitated when they were trying to place the IV, so they took her to imaging to do it. It’ll take a while for the IV bag to empty into her veins, and then they can do the scans.”
“Can we see her in the meantime?”
“I don’t think so. I think the more people around, the more agitated she’ll get.”
“But it feels like one of us should be with her at least,” I say.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see that Audrey’s calling. Shit. In my rush to get here through the post-game traffic, I completely forgot to let her know what was going on.
“Hey,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear as I walk out into the hallway.
“Everything okay?” she asks, concern evident in her sweet voice.
“I’m at the hospital. My mom fell leaving the game, and when Caitlyn called to tell me, I rushed straight here. I’m so sorry. I meant to call you on my way, but I was so distracted.”
“Oh no! Is she okay?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her yet…” I pause and take a deep breath as I lean against a wall. The adrenaline rush that had carried me here is over, and I’m crashing—emotionally and physically. Then I explain about the CT scan.
“Drew, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“I don’t think there’s anything to do. We just have to wait and see what happens.” I hate this part. I hate the waiting and the uncertainty. Unfortunately, that’s what this disease brings. All I want to do is wrap myself in Audrey’s arms, but I’d never ask her to come here. Not only because she’s home with Graham, but also because I know how she feels about hospitals.
“Okay,” she says. “You’ll keep me posted?”
“Of course.” I pause, taking a breath. “And Audrey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry about tonight.”
“What for?” she asks, sounding confused.
“For losing control of my emotions on the ice. I don’t want you to think that it means I’m not serious about making sure my contract gets renewed, or that I’m not aware that I need to set an example for Graham.”
“Fighting is part of hockey, Drew. No one expects that you’ll never fight. I think AJ just wants to make sure you’re not spending all your time in the penalty box. And you haven’t been.”
She’s right, I haven’t spent nearly as much time in the penalty box as was normal for me in Colorado. But still, I know AJ’s not happy with me right now. “I know, but she’s pissed about that fight.”
“You’re worried?”
“A little.”
“It’s going to be okay, Drew,” she says, but she can’t know that for sure.
“I hope so.” I sigh, and we say our goodbyes before I return to the room to wait with my sisters.
It’s probably half an hour later when there’s a knock on the door, and then it swings open. We all look up, expecting a nurse or doctor to update us on my mom, and in strolls Audrey.
“What—what are you doing here?” I ask, as relief crashes over me just at the sight of her.
“Since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, I brought provisions.” She holds out a plastic container of cookies, telling us Jules made them earlier today. And then she sets what appears to be one of those bags that hold four bottles of wine on a rolling table next to where the bed should be, and starts taking out reusable coffee mugs one by one. “It’s hot caramel apple cider,” she says, “because that’s what I had on hand. I hope you guys like that? I didn’t want to attempt hot chocolate now that I’ve had your secret family recipe.”
Missy and Caitlyn look at me, and Missy laughs, saying, “We have a secret family recipe?”
“It’s very top secret,” I say, looking at my sisters. “Sorry, you two didn’t make the cut.”
“You made that whole thing up!” Audrey practically screeches.
“I do have a recipe, and I’m the only one who knows what it is, thus making it top secret. I did say that I’d tell you when you married me.” I shrug, and then reach my hand out for a cup of her hot caramel apple cider.
“Well, now maybe I don’t know if I want to marry you,” she says, but her voice is teasing as she hands me the cup. “If you’d lie about a hot chocolate recipe, what else would you lie about?”
I pull her to me and my lips to her forehead, telling her, “I’m so glad you’re here.” She wraps an arm around me and gives me a squeeze, then looks up at me. “I would never have expected you to come. I know how much you hate hospitals.”
“Drew, I’ll happily sit in a hospital if it means being here to support you.”
I drop my forehead to hers and breathe her in, the vanilla citrus scent that she seems to be infused with, as I try to absorb the love and the empathy she exudes.
My sisters start making gagging noises behind us, and I’m about to say something crude in response, when the door swings open and a nurse walks in.
“Everything’s okay,” she tells us. “But the doctor wants to keep your mom overnight for observation. You can see her, and then we’re going to get her admitted.”
